


Hath Not a Jew Eyes?: The Journal of Ashira Leidermann (1943-1944)

by HarrisonHolmes2014



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Diary/Journal, F/M, Heavy Stuff with a Bit of Hope, Holocaust, Judaism, Most Depressing Story I've Ever Written, Nazi Germany, Nazis, Resistance, Sad, World War II, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrisonHolmes2014/pseuds/HarrisonHolmes2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holocaust as seen through the eyes of Ashira Leidermann, a seventeen-year-old German Jewish girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a huge list of Holocaust stories, fiction and nonfiction. The most influential ones for me were: _The Devil's Arithmetic, Maus, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, _and_ Man's Search for Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy._ I also owe a huge debt to the textbook _War and Genocide: A Concise History of the Holocaust, _for helping me learn more about the Jewish community in Belarus and the resistance movement tied to it. All excellent books/films and worth a look.__

1 June 1943

Woke up today at six o’clock, and no wonder: it was my seventeenth birthday! I scrambled out of bed and tore back the tattered cloth my mother hung over our window. The buildings of Stolpetsky Lane, our street in the ghetto, seemed to lean against each other wearily in the early morning light.

After rousing all the people in the house, I darted to the kitchen. That was where I found this lovely journal, a gift from my family. My friends Esther Kraler and Marta Rosen, whose families live with mine, gave me a bar of chocolate they found on the ghetto black market at old Herr Trent’s soup kitchen. Everyone must have scraped and saved their meager paystubs from the factory in order to give me such precious gifts.

I did not see Kristian Sternberg today. He and his Aryan peers in the Hitler Youth were engaged in a march along the ghetto borders with some Nazi soldiers. It is part of their duty, as they were indoctrinated into the _Wehrmacht _two years ago. Their section of the army was sent to Minsk to guard the ghetto. Kristian tries to get out of his guard duties as much as he can, but today he was unsuccessful. Happy birthday wishes came from him as well as his parents, which astounds me: normally we spend much of our time teasing each other, as we have since we were children. It is rare for him to treat me with seriousness!__

The Sternbergs' congratulations came via Hans Kraler, Esther’s father. Herr Kraler risks his life each day to work with Kristian’s father at the fabric factory in Minsk proper, disguising himself as an Aryan and using false work papers. His story is similar to many others I have heard.

I can hear Mother calling me to help make supper. Until next time!  
Ashira

3 June 1943

Just returned from Rabbi Weissmann’s house, where we go to our _minyan. _The rabbi wished me a happy birthday before the five families and expressed sorrow that we could not celebrate properly. Oh, well. We Jews have precious little here in the ghetto.__

Well, shame on me. I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I? My name is Ashira Leidermann. It is rather an unusual name, not even truly a name. Rather, it is part of the first line of my mother's favorite song: _"Ashira l'Adonai ki gaoh gaah" _(I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously). Because it is a bit of a mouthful, sometimes those closest to me call me Ashi. I consider myself rather plain-looking, what with my slanted smile, dark eyes and nut-brown hair that constantly gets tangled. My only pretty features, in my opinion, are the dimples that I get when I laugh.__

____

As I have said before, my family lives in the ghetto in Minsk, Byelorussia. We have lived here since last October, when the Nazis forced all Jews out of Germany. We used to live in Berlin, where my father and Dr. Sternberg had a private practice before Jews were banned from working with Aryans. Now Father, Dr. Rosen and almost every other man in the ghetto works at the factory on Shirokaya Street. The ghetto boys around my age, and often the girls too, also work there to make extra money for their families.

Life in the ghetto is…I would say difficult, but that does not even begin to describe it. The ghetto is split into two sides: the German Jews like my family and the Russian Jews. Each side has its own _Judenrat, _a council of Jews ordered by the Germans to run the ghetto. Even though the Nazis control the _Judenrats _with iron fists, the heads attempt to help us as much as they can. They organize _complets: _secret meetings of small groups of students at a teacher’s home. They also facilitate secret prayer sessions called _minyanim. _Even with the _Judenrats’ _help, our freedoms are virtually nonexistent. We are not permitted to go outside of the ghetto walls, nor are we allowed out on the streets after seven o’clock. We must sew yellow Stars of David onto all of our clothes, and display the stars prominently every time we go out in public.__________

The sewers are the only way to visit friends outside of the ghetto. Sneaking through the maze of pipes is how my family and the Sternbergs visit each other. When things began to take a downward turn, Frau and Herr Sternberg were the first to swear that they would not allow such a little thing as politics to affect our families' friendship, one that goes back as far as I can remember. That aside, they have always been sympathetic to Jews, providing moral support to other Jewish families even before we came to Minsk. Their kindness is all the more incredible, and dangerous, given that they are Catholic. Ever since the Nazi regime began, they have had to practice their religion in secret, much like we Jews.

Nazi soldiers and their Hitler Youth minions guard the ghetto, preventing anyone from coming in or going out through the official entrances. But they are nothing compared to the _Einsatzgruppen. _These men are members of the _Wehrmacht _who are basically trained to kill Jews. Just three months ago, they brutally murdered around five thousand Jews on the other side of the ghetto. I could hear the gunshots and screams even from inside our house.____

Writing is my only escape from this terrifying and miserable existence. I have kept journals for the past two years, completing four before I received this one. I scavenge pencils from rubbish bins, gutters, wherever I can find them. Shakespeare is my hero: I have long been enamored of his plays, especially _The Merchant of Venice. _I always believed that he was using that play to protest against treatment of Jews in his time, but never has that protest been so significant in my life as it is now. I hope to one day become a playwright like him.__

Whoops, I realized that I forgot to wash the dishes earlier so once again I take my leave of you. Until we meet again, I remain yours truly.  
Ashira

12 June 1943

This evening after we got out of the factory, Esther, Marta and I walked down to Yubileny Square, to look for the boys. Going there was Esther’s idea, please don’t get me started on her infatuation with “the opposite sex!” We sat at the edge of the square, near old Herr Trent’s soup kitchen, and waited for the boys to arrive. Right on cue, Yitzchak Yalom and Rolf Gräbe appeared on the opposite side from us.

Shortly after their arrival, Kristian Sternberg came out of the side street where the main sewer pipe is. He was wearing the disguise he and his parents use to visit us Jews: a hat pulled low over his face that covered his un-Aryan, wavy brown hair, and a tattered brown coat embroidered with a Star of David. His small silver cross, which he usually wears quite openly, was tucked down the front of his shirt to assist the disguise. He joined Yitzchak and Rolf.

Esther nudged me in the ribs. “Go on over to Kristian, Ashi,” she hissed. “I know you love him, you have since we were little. Don’t try to deny it!”

Unfortunately I am cursed with the ability to blush easily, which Esther took as confirmation of her little theory. She giggled and nudged me again, adding in a singsong voice, “See, you’re blushing!”

“Oh, Esther, you know I blush easily,” I snapped back softly, trying to ignore Kristian glancing curiously over at me.

Esther rolled her eyes. “What are you, chicken?” she said. Sometimes she can be so infuriating.

“Chicken?” I shot back. “I don’t see you over there with Rolf.”

It was her turn to blush, but she also grinned mischievously. “You want me to?”

“Yes,” put in Marta. As is her habit, she had been silent until now. “We dare you.”

“All right, then!” Esther stood up, swung her red hair out of her face and flounced over to the boys. She promptly leaned so close to Rolf that it bordered on scandalous. This was not helped by the fact that she kept batting her eyes invitingly at him!

Kristian came over and took her place. “Hi, kids,” he said.

"Kids?" I spluttered. "We are as old as you."

He cocked one dark eyebrow. "Really?" he said, his voice delicately tinged with irony. "The way Esther acts, I would be more tempted to call you kids. When is your _bat mitzvah, _little Ashi?"__

__I rolled my eyes. "The moment you grow up and become a man yourself, which shall be never." Sometimes I think we are a Beatrice and Benedick for a new generation._ _

__

__Some Nazi guards marched past along the edge of the square at that moment, putting our verbal sparring to a halt. One of them, spying the two Jews and Aryan disguised as a Jew standing on the other side of the square, raised his gun at us and made a shooting sound. His fellows roared with laughter. We were lucky he was not in the mood to actually fire._ _

____

Kristian’s eyebrows contracted angrily, making him look positively hawklike. “You’ll see who’s laughing at you in the end, Nazis,” he said softly as they marched away. I always love when he says such things. They mean a lot, coming from an Aryan.

Marta turned to face him. “You think the Allies will win the war, then?” she said.

Kristian shrugged. “I only say it because it makes me feel better.”

Just then, Yitzchak and Rolf started forward. “Come on, Kristian,” shouted Yitzchak.

“All right,” Kristian answered back, beginning to follow them. Just before he left he glanced back at me, and I suddenly heard set of lines from _Romeo and Juliet _echo in my head: “When he shall die, / Take him and cut him out in little stars, / And he will make the face of heaven so fine / That all the world will be in love with night.”__

Then he said, “See you, Ashira,” and I barely had time to register the use of my proper name before he was gone.  
Ashira

18 June 1943

I come here today to discuss more difficulties of wartime living. First, there are the rations. Before the Nazis came to power, we were able to eat well and fully. Now, food is mainly potatoes, leeks or eggplant, usually in soup form. We must go to old Herr Trent’s soup kitchen each morning to receive our daily allowance. The amounts of food are especially small, barely enough to prevent us from starving to death, because we live in the ghetto. Almost every night, everyone in my house goes to bed hungry.

Our fine clothing, jewels and other valuables were all taken from us the night of our expulsion from Berlin and “donated to the war effort.” In other words, they were given to the Nazi generals’ wives. Ever since the Berlin Jews were relocated, my family has sold off virtually all of the few valuables that we smuggled with us. Trading jewels for food on the black market is the only way we can get enough to survive.

The ghetto also has a strange talent for turning joyful events into serious problems. Example: we are all dreading the birth of Frau Kraler’s new baby, which should be in about three months. She has had to remain hidden in the house ever since her pregnancy started to show, because the Nazis would force her to get an abortion if they found out. Luckily the Kralers have a friend on the _Judenrat _who keeps Frau Kraler’s name off of the lists of births and pregnancies in the ghetto. Her baby, aside from creating a lot of trouble for us if it is discovered, will only be another mouth to worry about feeding.  
Ashira__


	2. Chapter 2

24 June 1943

Even though living in the ghetto twists our existence horribly, happy events still occur. Shmuel Rosen, Marta’s younger brother, had his _bar mitzvah _this evening. Everyone who could spare the energy went to the_ Judenrat_ building, where it was held secretly in the basement. I was so proud and pleased for Shmuel when he read from Rabbi Weissmann’s old Torah without missing a beat. My younger sister Rivka surprised me today by giving Shmuel a very shy kiss on the cheek after the ceremony was over.

At the after-party in the basement, Marta, Esther and I all convened near the _klezmer _band at the edge of the crowd. “I’m so glad I could get away from my relatives,” Esther muttered. “They’re all scolding me for flirting with Rolf.” She nodded at the opposite side of the dance floor, where Rolf Gräbe was leaning against the wall with Yitzchak and Kristian. Luckily Kristian and his parents were able to attend.__

“Esther Kraler, do you honestly care what your relatives say to you about Rolf?” Marta teased.

Esther grinned, her blue eyes alight. “You have a point,” she conceded. And with that, she ran across the floor to Rolf. When she reached him she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He looked surprised, but also most pleased, when Esther tugged him out to dance.

I sighed. “That’s Esther for you,” I said dispassionately to Marta, whose hands were clamped over her mouth in an effort to muffle her laughter.

Just then a voice behind me said quietly, “She always was a little on the wild side.” Marta and I turned to see Kristian, holding a glass of sweet wine. “Congratulations, Marta. How do you make a toast in Hebrew?”

_“L’chaim,” _Marta replied. “It means, ‘To life.’”__

_“L’chaim!” _Kristian repeated cheerfully, taking a sip. He smiled, slightly lopsidedly, as though he enjoyed hearing the language roll off of his tongue.__

“That’s it,” said Marta. She was smiling too. Then she crossed the floor to Yitzchak, who was waving her over. The two of them joined Esther and Rolf on the dance floor.

Now Kristian spoke to me. “You know, we have something similar to _bar _and_ bat mitzvahs_ in Catholicism,” he said thoughtfully. For once he did not open our conversation with a barb.

“Really?” I said, wondering why on earth he was bringing this up.

“Yes, it’s called confirmation. That’s where I got this.” He held up the small cross he wears, and it gleamed bright silver in the dim basement light.

I raised an eyebrow. “So a man does live inside this boy after all!” I said mockingly.

Kristian rolled his eyes. "Yes, odd as that may seem to you, my dear Lady Disdain."

Picking up on the Shakespeare reference, I ran with it. "Is it possible my disdain should die when I have such excellent food for it?"

Kristian laughed, a sort of half-laugh and half-sigh, and took a sip of wine. After a pause, remembering that he had not opened the conversation with teasing, I said more seriously, “But what have you really come here to talk to me about, Kristian?”

“Well, Rolf dared me to ask you to dance,” he mumbled, dark eyes on the floor.

“And you call me a child,” I teased. “Nevertheless, I don’t think a dance with you would kill me.”

So we walked out onto the floor and danced for a few songs. I must say that having a boy put his arm around my waist was most awkward, especially since I have never experienced that before. But it was nice, even when Kristian stepped on my foot.  
Ashira

1 July 1943

I have good news to report: Yitzchak Yalom and his parents have disappeared. They must have found a way to get out of Minsk. It was much easier for people to escape when Herr Mishkin was still with us. Eliyahu Mishkin, former head of the Russian _Judenrat, _led an underground resistance movement that sent Jews to join Soviet partisans in the woods outside the city. The Nazis caught and arrested him last year. He was a good man, risking everything to help Jews escape.__

Even though we have lost Herr Mishkin, some Jews still manage to join the partisans. Sadly, they only take Jews with weapons, and no children, so many people have chosen to keep their families intact and stay in the ghetto.

We probably will not hear from the Yaloms again. Communication between the ghetto and the partisans is too dangerous for anyone to dream of trying. When Frau Kraler heard about the Yaloms, I heard her mutter to Mother, “I hope the partisans take them, or the _Malakh Ha-Mavet _will add them to his list.”__

The Angel of Death.

I can only pray that all of the families who have escaped have not been harmed.  
Ashira

10 July 1943

It is Rivka’s turn for a celebration. Tonight was her _bat mitzvah. _My family has been running around for two months, spreading the word. Everyone who can has sent Rivka flowers, including the Sternbergs. God only knows where everyone found flowers. Sadly, the Sternbergs could not attend in person. Kristian could not get out of guard duty tonight. I do miss his presence slightly; we have such fun throwing words at each other.__

Shmuel Rosen returned Rivka’s kiss after they danced. It is lucky that Father and Mother approve of Shmuel, or they would not be enthralled with such behavior! Esther and Rolf shared a dance too. They are together now, and Esther simply will not stop talking about him and what they plan to do once they get the chance, which is too indecent for me to repeat here. I only wish that poor Marta could have danced with Yitzchak, but he and his parents are long gone. I felt her melancholy...I feel ridiculous saying this, but I had also hoped Kristian would come so that we could dance together again.  
Ashira

22 July 1943

Marta, Esther and I were wandering around the Jewish cemetery after supper when we encountered some Nazis. We could not tell what they were doing, but they were obviously on a tight schedule: they were darting back and forth between the graves, shouting orders to each other.

Marta glanced at us, her eyes wide with fear. “I wonder what they’re doing?” she said quietly.

Esther replied before I did. “Well, there’s no law saying that we can’t look. This is our ghetto, after all. Come on.” Sometimes I think Esther does not understand that even though this is “our” ghetto, we Jews really have no rights at all.

We walked closer apprehensively. Once we were close enough to see, Marta gasped and grabbed my arm. Many of the gravestones had been torn out of the ground. The soldiers were heaving the huge stones onto trucks and driving them away. Rage boiled up in my veins, but none of us dared to say anything about the profanation. After all, the Nazis had guns.

As we were taking in the sight, one of the men whirled around and saw us. An evil leer came onto his face. “Well, what have we here?” he said, lowering his gun and walking toward us. “What are three pretty Jewesses doing out this late, eh?”

Although my insides had gone cold with fear, I held my head high. “Taking a walk around the ghetto,” I said defiantly. “Is that against the law now too?”

None of the Nazis laughed except the one talking to us. “My, what a sharp tongue,” he said. He stepped close to me, put his hand under my chin and stroked it lightly. I tried hard not to recoil at his touch. “I would keep such a tongue in my mouth if I were you. You know what happens to Jews who don’t know when to keep quiet?”

“No,” I mumbled.

“Auschwitz!” Now the others laughed, cruel laughter that rang around the cemetery. “If I were you I’d learn to keep my silence,” the soldier said sweetly, putting a hand on my hair and stroking it. “You may be a female Jew swine, but it would be a shame for such beauty to go to waste.”

“Adolf, I should report you, with your fancy for Jewesses!” teased one of his companions, and my face burned with humiliation.

Esther took my hand and gently pulled me away from the soldier. “Come on, Ashira, Marta,” she said firmly. “Let’s go home.”

“Keep your heads down, my pretty ones,” he sneered, and the others laughed as we walked away.  
Ashira

1 August 1943

Marta asked Esther and me to meet her and Kristian in the cemetery today. She said she had something important to tell us. When we found them by a pile of overturned gravestones, she, Shmuel and Kristian had most aggrieved looks on their faces. Kristian did not even greet me with a barbed comment, instead looking at me with such seriousness that I did not have the heart to begin a verbal spar.

“Why don’t you younger ones go and play?” I suggested. My youngest sister Miriam and the three little Kralers (Yisrael, Avrom, and Tzipporah) ran off amongst the few remaining graves, but Rivka and Benyamin and Sarah Kraler remained behind. I turned to my friend and said, “What’s wrong, Marta?”

Marta hesitated for a long time before speaking. “Some Nazis came to the house on Friday when Father was home sick,” she said quietly.

That statement never bodes well. “What did they want?” Sarah asked.

“The bastards wanted to bring him back to Germany to work as a doctor,” Kristian growled.

Shmuel nodded. “They said that they’d be able to protect us from Hitler if he agreed,” he said. “Then they said they would return in a week to hear our answer.”

“Did your father say he would think about it?” asked Benyamin.

“Well, he didn’t have a choice,” said Marta. “But when we came home, he told us and said, ‘I don’t trust them any more than I would trust a fox to watch a chicken coop.’”

Although it was a warm day, I felt goosebumps erupt up my arms. “So you’re going into hiding?” I whispered.

Marta finally faced me, tears in her eyes. “Yes.”

“Where?” said Rivka, looking despairingly at Shmuel. “Are you joining the Soviets?”

Kristian answered for Shmuel. “My parents and I are going to keep them in our cellar.” Underneath the defiance and nervousness in his voice, I heard a distinct strain of pride. It was a more mature tone than I have ever heard him use in front of me.

“When?” said Esther.

“We can’t say for sure, but sometime before the Nazis come back.” Marta and Shmuel then gave us hugs, and Shmuel pecked Rivka on the cheek. Then they turned away and started to walk home. Kristian smiled sadly at me and followed them.

I must make a plan for my journal in case the Nazis should come knocking on my door next. If it seems there is a chance they will read it, I will burn it before they can get their hands on it. No matter what the Nazis do to me, I shall not be responsible for capture of a loved one.  
Ashira


	3. Chapter 3

5 August 1943

Note to any Nazis who may read this journal: I have reasons to hate you with all my heart. You believe that we Jews are little better than dirt on your over-polished black boots. Your tyranny has driven so many into the woods or into hiding. Those who remain are forced to wear foul yellow Stars of David wherever we go, to starve and freeze to death in the filthy ghetto of Minsk. You have even murdered us, slaughtered us like so many animals, all because of what we are: Jews.

Yes, I have good reasons to loathe you. I have good reasons to wish that the Angel of Death would rain his wrath down on you and yours. But I do not. Rather, I pity you.

What dreadful mental disease could you be suffering from that would make you want to take the right of dignity away from other human beings? What horrendous personal experiences could fill you with such rage that you must diminish it by abusing people who have done nothing wrong? I would pity anyone who is suffering in this fashion and handling it as you do.

Yes, my dear Nazis, many Jews hate you for your actions. But I feel sorry for you. I shall pray that God will understand your suffering and forgive you for your actions. After all, as Shakespeare once said, “We do pray for mercy, / And that same prayer doth teach us all to render / The deeds of mercy.”  
Ashira

9 August 1943

M.R. and her family successfully went into hiding a few days ago. E.K.’s and my families send them as much food as we can. Each day, we take a few pieces of food out of our rations and compile packages for them.

Getting these packages to the M’s family is quite the undertaking. At some point in time on Saturdays, someone takes a parcel of saved food to the sewer hole outside the Jewish hospital. K.S. hides under the hole, in the main pipe he sneaks through to see my family. The person bringing the food signals to him with a whistle, and he lifts the lid and takes the parcel from the deliverer. To make M feel better about her situation, I write her letters and send them with the food.

She is very depressed. “We’re completely housebound,” she wrote to me. “We dare not set foot outside except to empty the chamber pot. You’re so lucky, Ashira, because you are still free to go outside and see K.”  
Ashira

20 August 1943

Well, M and her family are not the only ones who have considered hiding. Over supper tonight talk turned to their situation, and the adults sent M.L. and the three little ones out of the dining room. E, R, S, B and I were allowed to remain and listen.

E’s mother confessed that she was worried about her family’s safety. She is afraid that the Nazis will try to hire her husband too, to design guns for them. Thus, they are considering options for escape, including joining the partisans. I do not know what they intend to do with their children if they decide to go to the woods. The children are all too young for the partisans to accept the entire family.  
Ashira

28 August 1943

Lately K has been speaking with me less and less. I noticed a small drop in talks just after Shmuel’s _bar mitzvah, _but now he barely says a word in front of me, which is very unlike him. He has even stopped responding to our normal verbal jousts, to such a point that I do not try to begin them anymore! It is clear to me he has something on his mind; I have known him since I was a child, and know how to read him. Perhaps it is merely the great responsibility (and inevitable stress) his family has taken on, with shielding the Rs. As his behavior is beyond me, I have written to M.R. and asked her opinion. Also, Father and Mother keep shooting glances our way whenever K is with me, as if they know something and are not telling me.__

Every time we go to our _minyan, _the rabbi lists who else has escaped to the partisans or hidden in the city. After he finishes the listing we always say the_ Kaddish,_ a prayer for the dead, for the people on the list. Though he said that he prayed that they had not been harmed, he added that we could not allow them to ascend to God alone if the _Gestapo _have discovered them.  
Ashira__

30 August 1943

Received my reply from M.R. I could not believe what she wrote! She said, “You say that K has seemed melancholy around you lately and asked me what I made of it. Well, I do not think it is simply the stress of having my family hiding with his (though this must naturally be part of it). He is behaving similarly around us: he rarely speaks to any of us anymore and spends a good deal of time in his room. It is almost as if his mind is somewhere else... _with _someone else. Call me silly, Ashira, but I believe that it and his heart are both with you! I recognize the symptoms of unconfessed love, and K is suffering greatly from them.” K.S., fall in love with me? As if!__

____

And yet…is it so ridiculous of a theory? Wasn’t I hoping that he would attend R’s _bat mitzvah _so that we could dance? Didn’t I enjoy the time he did dance with me? And haven’t I also enjoyed our hours together, even without the old fun we once had with our verbal sparring?__

And after all...I have compared us to Beatrice and Benedick many a time...and were they not secretly in love all along?

Part of me, the part that is accustomed to the teasing K I have known all my life, scoffs at the idea of him falling in love with me. Yet I have seen a different side of him ever since his family took Marta’s in. He has become much more purposeful and serious as the war has worsened and his family takes on ever more dangerous roles. Is it not possible that, as he has changed so drastically, I may not change as well?  
Ashira

2 September 1943

E’s mother has given birth to her baby. It is a beautiful little girl, whose name I shall not write here. I shall only say it begins with J. None of us are certain that the baby will survive the war: we barely have enough food and strength to care for ourselves.

Nevertheless, a new baby is a wonderful thing to behold. J, thankfully, seems to be a very easygoing child. The only time I have heard her cry was when she was first born and needed to try breathing on her own. We shall see how long her sweet temper lasts, once food supplies get low again.  
Ashira


	4. Chapter 4

4 September 1943

I shall begin this entry by quoting _Othello, _for it accurately describes how I am feeling right now: “It is the very error of the moon, / She comes more nearer the earth than she was wont / And makes men mad.”__

K kissed me this afternoon.

We were sitting on my bed, reading my copy of _The Merchant of Venice, _one of the few personal possessions still remaining to me. We were taking turns reading the characters’ lines and acting out their parts. K has always shared my enthusiasm for Shakespeare. Father, Mother and E’s parents were at work in the factory. E, B, M.L. and R were all at Yubileny Square, keeping E’s siblings occupied. Save for baby J, the two of us were completely alone.__

K glanced over at me as he read the line leading into Shylock’s famous monologue. “Why, I am sure if he forfeit thou wilt not take his flesh. What’s that good for?”

“To bait fish withal,” I read. I felt my voice growing louder and angrier as I read the next lines. “If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hind’red me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies – and what’s his reason? I AM A JEW!”

I found myself on my feet, screaming the last phrase as rage pounded through my veins. Shakespeare could never have imagined how terribly accurate this speech would be one day. K was looking at me with a mingled expression of awe and terror as I launched into the next part of the speech. I have read it over so many times that I have it memorized. My voice cracked as I spoke, and I imagined I stood before the Nazis, demanding an answer from them.

“Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?”

I heard K start to speak with me in a voice barely above a whisper, reading from the book. “Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?” Out the corner of my eye, I saw him finger the silver cross around his neck.

Angry tears stung my eyes. “If you prick us, do we not bleed?”

My voice broke, and K picked up the next line for me. “If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”

“If you poison us, do we not die?” I asked, my entire body shaking.

He looked away from the book and into my eyes. There was a moment of quivering silence before he whispered, “And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?”

It was the way he looked at me, combined with using the word “us,” that did it for me. I broke down sobbing, collapsing on the floor beside my bed. To my great surprise, I heard the bedsprings creak and felt a pair of strong arms wrap around me. K had hugged me before, but only out of friendly obligation. Those hugs felt nothing like this one: tender, gentle and comforting.

Finally I mustered enough control over myself to look up at him. He was not crying, but he was blinking rather rapidly. “Are you all right now?” he said kindly.

“I think so,” I muttered, wiping my eyes. “It’s just that all of it is so true, so appropriate, with everything that’s going on right now…” Looking away from him, I sighed and said, “I suppose Hitler never really paid attention to what Shylock is really saying: that we’re all the same and have a right to be treated like it.”

“I suppose not.” He paused. “Ashi?”

As with the embrace, I’ve never heard him say my nickname before. And I had never heard him say any part of my name the way he did. His tone was not teasing, but soft and shy, as if he was enjoying the sound of it. I found myself rather short of breath as I said, “Yes, K?”

He released me as he asked, “Do you know what they do to Jews? The Nazis?”

This was certainly an unexpected question. I shook my head. “But every time we talk about people who have hidden or escaped, someone mentions the Angel of Death,” I murmured.

K nodded gravely. “I think the Nazis send your fellow Jews to the Angel of Death on Hitler’s orders.”

“No!” I gasped.

“Yes,” he growled. His eyebrows were so close together that they appeared to be one entity, and his whole body was tense with rage.

“But K, they need us for labor in the factories. They can’t possibly be simply murdering Jews, we’re too valuable to the war effort!”

“There’s something strange about that Auschwitz place,” K said. He did not seem to have heard me. “You know how much I hate being forced to be in the _Wehrmacht, _but I use the opportunity to find out more about what the Nazis are doing. I sometimes hear the older soldiers making jokes about Jew smoke at Auschwitz.”__

He took a deep breath, some of the furious tenseness in his body fading and turning into a shiver. His face was the color of chalk. Finally he stammered, “If Auschwitz is just a normal prison, or a work center, where does the phrase Jew smoke come from? Can you tell me that, Ashira?”

“Oh, K,” I snapped. “The Nazis just make stories like that up to scare Jews into submission.”

“I don’t think so,” he insisted.

“But how do you know for sure? How can you rely on rumors?” When K didn’t say anything I grabbed his shoulders, crying, “Don’t you realize how frightened we all are already? Why are you making it worse by talking about Auschwitz, whatever it is?”

He paused, obviously gearing up for a painful explanation. “Because I might end up there,” he said.

_“What?” ___

“You know I’ll be eighteen soon. I and the other boys around my age have been summoned to fight on the Soviet front,” he said, a note of terror in his voice now. “But I won’t do it. I’m not going to sell my soul to those devils, and my parents support my choice. The Nazis, however, won’t take very kindly to it if my family continues living in the open.”

My insides had frozen with horror. “So you’re going into hiding too?”

“Yes, very soon. We have a Gentile friend in Minsk who will be hiding us, and she’s agreed to take M’s family as well. That means you and I will no longer have any time like this, alone together. Ashi,” he said my nickname again and placed his hands on my shoulders, “you do realize how much I always enjoyed these times, don’t you?”

“No,” I managed to whisper. “You never told me that.”

“Well, I will now. I would hate for one of us to be carted off to Auschwitz without you knowing.” And next thing I knew, K had kissed me on the mouth.

When we separated, he took my face in his hands and we looked at each other. I took him in: the dark eyes, the wavy brown hair with highlights of red in the sun, the shape of his jawline. I couldn’t feast my eyes long enough...and I had no idea how I had never seen how handsome he is. “K…”

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you, Ashira. Is not that strange?”

“Very,” I said quietly, smiling a little at Benedick's lines, and we kissed again. He pressed against me slightly, and then I found myself lying on my back on the floor with him above me, kissing me. There is something odd about having such a familiar face so close to one’s own, something curious about feeling the hands of a boy you never would have suspected loved you at your back and waist. Nevertheless, there is also something infinitely beautiful about it.

We must not have noticed B, E, the little Ks and my sisters marching through the front door. I only realized they had returned when I heard all the girls shrieking. K wisely made his exit at that moment, but I was forced to tell the story to everyone in the house. Although my parents both approve of K, having known him since he was three, we held a long discussion about the dangers of a Jew falling in love with an Aryan. I told them that I would not allow Hitler to dictate what kinds of people I am supposed to love. As icing on the cake, E, R and M.L. teased me relentlessly for the rest of the day.  
Ashira

9 September 1943

K and M.R.’s families are now safely hidden with their Gentile beneficiary, Fraulein V. The irony of my situation is absolutely sickening. The first love of my life has come along, and now we cannot even see each other.

But I must be thankful that K and I had the chance to share our first kiss before he went into hiding. He could have hidden before anything happened between us. The Nazis could still find him and take him away…No, I must not think about that!

Oh, you Nazis, if K falls prey to you I shall fall with him!  
Ashira

16 September 1943

This is a message to the people of Europe! Tell me, is there one among you who loves as Ashira L. does for K.S.? If there is, let me join forces with them. Then, perhaps, we can help the Nazis open their minds to love.

The final words of my entry are directed at the leader of my country, that swine Adolf Hitler. Herr Hitler, all I can say to you is a quote from _The Merchant of Venice, _the Shakespearean masterpiece that you frame as “proof” of the evil of Jews, when all you prove is that you do not understand Shylock: “Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, / But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.” You have deprived me of almost everything that made my life worthwhile.__

But there is one thing that you cannot take away from me, and that is my love for K, E, M.R. and my family. Nothing could ever take that from me, __mein Führer, __and it would be unwise for you to try. Love is my vengeance, and my fangs.  
Ashira


	5. Chapter 5

24 September 1943

The Nazis finally caught up with E’s father. They discovered his old job designing guns and have asked him to work for them. We have made contact with K’s and M’s families and Fraulein V, and they have agreed to fit all of us in their hiding place with them.

We are leaving the ghetto too.  
Ashira

Later

Arrived at the hideout safely. What a harrowing trip: we walked alone down side streets and alleys, avoiding the main thoroughfares and ghetto walls like the plague. The only things Father and Mother allowed us to bring were some playing cards, M.L.’s stuffed dog and my journal, pencils and my four Shakespeare plays: _Othello, Romeo and Juliet, Much Ado About Nothing _and_ The Merchant of Venice._ Even the little K children, including J, seemed to realize how crucial silence was.

When we arrived at the Jewish hospital on Sukhaya Street, Father gave the quiet whistle that we use to signal that we have arrived. The sewer lid opened very softly and I saw K’s white face peeking out from the dark hole, his brown hair blazing almost fiery red by the light of a small oil lamp. He pushed the sewer lid just far open enough for us to slip through and whispered, “Thank God you made it here. We have arranged that K.F., a friend of Fraulein V’s who is hiding R’s family, will take the Ks. She’ll meet us halfway through the tunnel. Follow me.”

Silently he led our group through the dark sewer tunnel. Rats scurried at our feet, and the smell was a foul mix of stagnant water and bad eggs. Halfway, as K had said, a young German woman was waiting for the Ks. Fraulein K took one look at all the children and sighed. “It will be difficult to conceal you with all these young ones,” she whispered, “but I shall do my best.”

Frau and Herr K looked at each other. Then Frau K spoke to Fraulein K. I could not see her face very well, even with the light from K’s lamp, but from the tone of her voice I could tell she was weeping. “My husband and I spoke on the way here,” she choked. “It’ll be more likely for more members of our family to survive if we join the partisans. Will you take our children, or find someone who is willing?” When Fraulein K hesitated, Frau K dug in her blouse and pulled out two diamond necklaces. “Take these as payment for your trouble, or give them to whomever adopts the little ones.”

Fraulein K pocketed the jewels and nodded. “I shall not be able to care for the children myself,” she said. “However, I am sure I can find homes for them. They may have to be split up, but it is possible. In fact, I know a woman who recently lost a daughter to miscarriage. I’m sure she and her husband will be delighted to take the baby girl. What is her name?”

“Jessika,” E murmured.

Fraulein K nodded. “I shall give Jessika to Danka, and find safe homes for the other little ones.”

“Thank you,” whispered Herr K. “May God bless you forever for your goodness.”

The two parents, E, S and B faced the children. E, Frau K and S reached up their skirts and pulled out rifles, real, loaded rifles that gleamed by the light of the lamp. I have no idea where they got those. S’s fingers trembled as she looked down at her rifle. No child of twelve should have to carry a gun, but this is the reality of our times.

Hugs and kisses were exchanged, along with promises that the family would be reunited one day. There were tears from all of us, even the tough and fiery E. “Stay safe, Ashi,” she wept as she hugged me.

“And you,” I managed to sob.

Frau K handed Jessika over to Fraulein K. The little girl was the only one who did not cry. On the contrary, Fraulein K whispered, “Even in this darkness I can tell she’s smiling at me.” After goodbyes had all been said, she led the four children away into the sewer tunnel. The remaining Ks turned down another branch of sewer pipe and began to walk away silently. I had one last glimpse of the K women holding their rifles before they vanished from sight.

My family’s journey seemed to take an age. When K finally pushed open another sewer lid and helped us climb out, we saw a tidy little house at the end of the street. We followed him around to the back of the house, where he knocked softly on the back door.

Fraulein V, a small and thin woman with a round, kind face, opened the door and allowed us to enter. “Welcome,” she said softly, leading us through to a salon. For a moment all of us admired the delicate lace and crystal statuettes on the two small tables. We have not seen such fine items for a while.

She pointed at a large bookcase at the opposite end of the salon. Father placed both hands on the side of the bookcase and pulled it away from the wall, revealing a staircase. “Go down quietly,” Fraulein V whispered. “There is a secret cellar in my house. You will find your friends downstairs.”

It was exactly as Fraulein V had said. There were blankets and pillows heaped on the floor, roughly arranged into two large nests. Personal belongings lay scattered in small piles all over the room: books, decks of playing cards and one or two board games, shoes and scarves. There was a camp stove with some dishes and a wireless in one corner, and a foul-smelling chamber pot in the other. Food was piled up along the wall, beside a bunch of candles that were the only sources of light. The whole place had a damp, gloomy air to it. M.R. threw herself upon me as soon as she saw me.

“Welcome home,” K said quietly as he entered behind us, bitterness in his voice. M.R., M.L., R, S, K and I huddled together in one of the nests. K immediately wrapped his arms around me and held me to his chest, stroking my hair. I could feel the cold metal of his silver cross against my cheek.

Thus, we wait for morning and pray that no unfriendly visitors find the bookcase.  
Anja

25 September 1943

After a long and virtually sleepless night, the adults held a conference to discuss our plans. Fraulein V will smuggle food to us. She will save portions of her rations and try to find as much as she can on black markets.

The three sets of parents are to share one nest of blankets, we young people, the other. The only people who know of our hiding place besides Fraulein V are R’s family and Fraulein K. We debated attempting to contact the Ks, but that idea swiftly died. We dare not risk our own safety, or theirs, on a whim that is unlikely to succeed.  
Ashira


	6. Chapter 6

7 October 1943

The Nazis have not come here. That is a blessing, but God is also the one who put the Nazis on this earth, as M.L. pointed out this morning through her sniffling. The dampness is not good for us; several of us have caught colds since my family arrived.

Living in hiding is perhaps the most monotonous existence that a person could have. Mostly what we do here is cook, eat, sleep and clean as needed. At least we have a few things to keep us from going utterly mad with boredom. On occasion I entertain the other cellar inhabitants with softly spoken renditions of Shakespeare monologues, and the other young people and I sometimes enact whole scenes. K was able to take his chess set when his family came here, and M.R. has a set of checkers. S.R. brought his old _dreidel, _so we play games with it and potato skins. Then, of course, we have about a dozen books, a dozen worlds into which we can escape.__

Today gave us an occasion for escape. It was K’s eighteenth birthday, so we had a celebration for him. We could not give him any presents, but he says that the fact that the Nazis have not found us is gift enough.

Even though we have much to be thankful for, I cannot deny that I am feeling let down. I thought Jews in hiding had better lives than Jews in the ghetto, but now that I am experiencing hiding I’m not so sure. Aside from the boredom, we need to make our food last throughout the week, until Fraulein V can get more to us each Saturday. Seeing as we go hungry most nights, just as we did in the ghetto, I perceive little difference between life there and life here.  
Ashira

15 October 1943

I have found a way to spend time alone with K. You see, every few days someone must empty the chamber pot. During the night, the person whose turn it is to clean the pot takes it into the alley behind the house and dumps its contents down the sewer. Whenever it is K’s or my turn, we go together, to “help.” This means that one of us just empties the pot and we remain outside and talk or kiss for a few blissful minutes. Romantic, is it not?

Needless to say, many jokes about this have arisen among the adults. Usually it is the men, and they say things like this: “Is it really appropriate for young gentlemen to be alone with young ladies in the darkness?” K and I pretend that we find it funny, but we do not. It is a mark of how the war has changed us both: once we would have delighted in the chance at a verbal joust.  
Ashira

21 October 1943

We got out just in time. The Nazis have liquidated the Minsk ghetto.

Fraulein V told us this morning when she brought our weekly food parcel. “It happened just after you arrived here,” she said to Mother. “The _Einsatzgruppen _apparently rounded up all the Jews remaining in the ghetto and loaded them onto big trucks. Some protested and were shot dead in the streets.”__

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about it now,” said M.R.’s mother, glancing at M.L., but K’s father joined the conversation.

“The old and children too?” he said. There was no surprise or rage in his voice. He is an Aryan and knows full well the crimes that his countrymen have committed against Jews.

Fraulein V nodded. “The streets were red with blood. I even saw one Nazi smash a baby against a wall because its mother wouldn’t leave her home quickly enough.”

“Please, no more!” Mother said angrily.

M.L. tugged on her skirt. “Where will they go? The Jews that the Nazis took away?” she asked fearfully after a brief coughing spell.

No one answered. K caught my eye, and I knew that we were both remembering the day we spoke about Auschwitz. All of us are still in the dark as to what happens there. Terrible as the Nazis are, I doubt that K’s beliefs can be true. But, I tell myself, he has a point: if Auschwitz is merely a prison or work camp, why have no Jews returned from it?  
Ashira

29 October 1943

Last night, K and I went to empty the pot again. After he had slopped its contents down the sewer he turned to me and kissed me. If I close my eyes I can still feel his hands on my hips, feel his warm, sweet mouth on mine. Sometimes I think that if it were not for K being with me, life in hiding would have driven me completely mad long ago.

He broke away from me, kissing my cheek. “K, I love you,” I murmured, my head against his chest.

“I love you too, Ashi,” he said. “When all this is over, we can be together.”

“We’re together now,” I pointed out quietly.

K sighed and I looked up, into his gentle brown eyes. I could just barely see his face through the darkness. “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“What did you mean, then?” I asked, even though I thought I knew.

He bent his head and brushed his lips along my neck. Shivers went all through me at the feeling of it. “I want to make love to you, Ashi,” he whispered in my ear. There was a pause as both of us digested the magnitude of this declaration. “You want it too,” he said shyly. “I know you do, I can tell.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “You’re right.” I felt a little shudder of excitement as I admitted it to him, admitted that this desire had lately been creeping into my dreams.

“I only wish we could do it now,” he said, his eyebrows contracting again. There was no mistaking the longing in his voice, nor in the gentle strokes of his hand along my hip. “But we can’t. Not here, while we’re in hiding.”

I reached up and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “No,” I acknowledged, “but we can dream until we get a chance to do it.”

“But what if we never get the chance, Ashi? What if we’re discovered? What if your Angel of Death swoops down and takes one of us away forever?”

“Don’t talk like that, K, please,” I begged him.

“It could happen, though!”

“It might not. But no matter what happens to us, the Angel of Death himself couldn’t stop me from loving you.”

“Ashi…”

I placed my mouth on his, silencing him with a kiss. “We should go back in,” I said, my lips brushing his. “They’ll wonder what we’re doing out here.”

K nodded and picked up the pot. He took my hand with his free one. Together, we made our way back into the cellar.  
Ashira


	7. Chapter 7

1 November 1943

I no longer need to shield my loved ones by not writing their names. Klara Franck, Fraulein Vasilina’s friend, betrayed us. We were discovered this evening.

I shall never forget it as long as I live. It was a normal early evening: we had just finished a small supper of eggplant-and-potato soup, and we were all amusing ourselves. Marta and Miriam were playing at cards, and the adults were chatting in whispers. Kristian and I were sitting in the children’s nest, reading _Much Ado About Nothing _again, waiting for darkness to fall so that I could go empty the chamber pot. None of us were expecting anything to happen.__

That’s why it came as a dreadful surprise when we heard banging and footsteps up in Fraulein Vasi’s house. Guttural screams of _“Raus, Juden! Raus!” _reached our ears through the salon floor. A minute later we heard boots on the staircase behind the bookshelf, and then a Jew’s worst nightmare came to us:_ Gestapo_ after _Gestapo _tumbled into the cellar, flashlights glaring and guns pointing directly at our hearts. Luckily I had stuffed my journal and pencil into the waistband of my skirt as soon as I heard the noise upstairs, so they did not find them.__

“Ah!” snarled the man nearest us, who had cold blue eyes and rather yellow teeth. “So that woman was right! There’s a whole pack of Jews for us here! How many are there?”

“Line up! _Schnell!” _roared a second soldier, one who didn’t look much older than Kristian. For a moment none of us moved, but the sound of guns being cocked talked us into it. I fell into place between Kristian and Miriam. When I held Miriam’s hand, I could feel it shaking. Fraulein Vasi was forced into the line as well.__

A third soldier counted us quickly. “Twelve, five males and seven females, and one Jew-hider,” he said gleefully. “As for the dark boy, I recognize him. He is Kristian Sternberg, the boy who was summoned to fight for the _Reich _and then vanished mysteriously. He was in my section of the_ Wehrmacht._ The man who resembles him and the blond woman are his parents.”

“Ah, so we have traitors to the German blood,” sneered Yellow-Teeth. “He and his family are as bad as the Jew pigs. Jews,” he announced, “you obviously found a way out of your ghetto. You should have gone with all the other Jews during liquidation.

“You are to be relocated tonight,” he said. “Gather your personal belongings. We shall give you ten minutes.”

Rounding up our things actually took much less than ten minutes. We have so few personal possessions that there was not much to pack. After everything we had was squeezed into a bag, the _Gestapo _had us line up again.__

“Now,” said Yellow-Teeth. “It’s time you Jewish swine were taught your proper places. You shall work for the German war effort once you reach your new home. Come.”

“What about the Jew-hider?” asked the man who had recognized Kristian.

Yellow-Teeth glanced at Fraulein Vasi, and then aimed his gun directly at her head. The gunshot resounded through the room and she collapsed upon the floor, dead. I shall never forget the sight of the blood pouring from her wound. As we were escorted out of the bookcase passage, I made myself a silent oath: while history may not remember Vasilina Nijinsky at all, I shall never forget her, for she was a hero.

The _Gestapo _bundled us out the front door of the house and onto the main street, where two trucks were parked at the curb. One of the trucks was filled, and the second held people I knew: the Gräbes. When Marta saw Rolf standing on the truck, her face went completely white. The_ Gestapo_ forced us onto the second truck, and soon there was no room for us to even sit down. The trucks rumbled slowly into life. Kristian stayed by my side the whole time.

As soon as we got moving Marta twisted around to Rolf, who was holding his younger sister Eva’s hand. “Rolf, how could you betray us?” she hissed at him.

Rolf looked at her with pain-filled eyes. “The _Gestapo _invaded our hiding place,” he said hoarsely. “Someone informed them, I don’t know who. They said they’d kill Fraulein Klara if she kept quiet, so she told them everything. And then they killed her anyway. Oh, Marta, Ashira, I’m so sorry.”__

I am writing this against Kristian’s back, my nose practically touching the paper because night has now fallen completely. Kristian keeps repeating something under his breath in German, and I only realized now just what he is saying.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen…”  
Ashira

2 November 1943

The SS confiscated my pencil and journal. Therefore, I must keep a mental record of all events between now and the next time I can physically write.

The trucks reached a railway station a few miles outside of Minsk early this morning. Several SS men guarded the station, and they shepherded us, over seventy of us between the two trucks, towards a line of wooden boxcars on the track. There were four or five of them, and only one did not already have people in it.

The SS pointed their guns at us. “Get in that car! _Schnell!” _Kristian’s hand, which had been holding mine the whole time, suddenly slid out of my grip as the SS shunted us forward. I was lucky enough to be pushed up against a gap in the boards, so I caught a final glimpse of Yellow-Teeth before the others closed the door on us. A loud bang and click told me that they had locked the door from the outside.__

On the realization that we were locked in, those of us nearest the sides of the car started banging our fists on the boards and yelling for the SS to let us out. I found myself screaming louder than anyone near me, though for a different thing: “Kristian! Kristian, where are you? Miriam, Rivka, Mother, Father!”

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Ashira!”

“Kristian?”

Though I could not see him very well, I recognized his voice. The boxcar was stiflingly hot, but he put his arms around me anyway. “It’s all right, Ashi. Shh…”

“Ashi?” said another familiar voice.

“Rivka!” I turned awkwardly, grasping my sister’s hand. “Where are Mother and Father?”

Tears were running down her face. “I don’t know. I lost track of them.”

Molten dread rose from the pit of my stomach, burning my throat, but I fought it down. “And Miriam?”

“Here,” said her small, terrified voice just at my right. “Behind you, Ashi.”

Just then something huge struck the boxcar, making it shudder violently. Many of the people in all of the cars screamed, and I clung tighter to Kristian and my sisters. I peered out of my gap in the boards and saw a great black steam engine attaching itself to our car.

We must have waited on the tracks for hours. More trucks full of Jews arrived at a steady pace and their cargo was forced into the five cars. Finally, with a deafening clattering, the engine and cars chugged into action. By the dim light in the car, Kristian turned to me and kissed me again. He touched his lips to every part of me that he could reach: my forehead, my lips, my neck and part of my shoulders. His kisses were the only thing that kept me calm.

I am still in the same position I was in when I entered this car. Night has fallen, and I think everyone is grateful now for the heat. It is a dreadful heat, though, one reeking of sweat, urine, feces, sick and…fear. We are all afraid of these men and the place they are taking us, whatever and wherever it is.

Part of me suspects where it is they are taking us. But I dare not mention it, lest I am right.  
Ashira

5 November 1943

We traveled for three days and nights, making only two stops on the way. At the first stop, the SS let the people in three cars out and gave us some water with algae in it. Four old people and two babies were found dead in the back of our car. The survivors were forced to throw the bodies onto the tracks, and we were loaded back into the car. At the second stop, the rest of the train was let out. Kristian, Rivka and Miriam did not leave my side.

Early this morning, our train finally pulled to a stop. As we stumbled out of the boxcar, I got a confused impression that we were between two open areas. High barbed-wire fences surrounded the area straight ahead of us, and I could see what looked like an iron gate in the distance. On the other side, also off in the distance, there was a second gate. This gate was huge, about four times the size of the iron one, a forbidding structure like the entrance to a fortress. People in ragged striped clothing scurried forward from out of nowhere and began taking the personal belongings of the people in the boxcars. As the crowd, accompanied by the ever-present shouts of _“Schnell,” _shuffled us along, Rivka pointed at a wooden sign tacked onto the fence. She whispered to me, “What does it say, Ashi?”__

I squinted at it as we drew nearer. It was written in German. _“Judenrampe,” _I read.__

The little of Kristian’s face that was not covered with grime went white. “I’ve heard that word,” he breathed. “In the _Wehrmacht.” ___

Before I could ask him what he meant, a man in a painstakingly pressed black uniform stepped out of the vast crowd. “Separate into two lines,” he roared. “Men to one side, women and children under fourteen to the other!” The guards moved into the crowd, pulling families apart and directing them toward the appropriate sides.

“No,” said Kristian. He put his arms around me, and I could feel him trembling with fear and rage. “They can’t separate us. I won’t let them take you away from me.”

“No…”

One of the soldiers spotted us and came our way. Kristian turned to me, and I could see tears streaming down his face, cutting tracks in the dirt. He put a hand to the small silver cross at his throat and tore it away. “Take it,” he croaked, pressing the chain into my hand. “I know you’re Jewish, but please take it.”

“Kristian, no,” I stammered, gazing at the cross with awe. “This is yours. I can’t.”

“Please, Ashi,” he begged. “Take it and wear it for me.”

I hesitated, but then I put the cross on, attaching the thin silver chain beneath my hair. “I will.”

He held me close to him again. “Oh, Ashi, I love you,” he whispered. “I love you more than anything else in this world.”

“Kristian…”

_“L’chaim. _To life,” he said, and he bent down and gently touched his lips against mine.__

“You heard Commandant Höss! Men to one side!” screamed the soldier who had seen us. He raised his rifle and struck Kristian in the ribs.

Kristian broke away from me with a cry of pain and was swallowed up in the tide of men and boys moving into a separate line. “Ashira!” he yelled, a new member of the choir of despairing voices crying out the names of loved ones. “Ashira!” Unbidden, maddeningly, his cries roused the song in my head: _"Ashira l'Adonai ki gaoh gaah..." ___

____

__

“Kristian!” I didn’t care who heard me. All I cared about was the pale face I loved vanishing into the crowd. “No!”

“Ashi, stop.” Marta was standing behind me, her face just as white and filthy as Kristian’s.

“No,” I moaned. “No…Kristian…Oh, God, Kristian…”

“Move, Ashi,” whispered Marta. “God will protect him. We are all in His hands.” Having no other option, I moved forward blindly with the rest of the women and children.

A tall, dark-haired woman wearing a striped dress approached our line. “When a camp doctor points at you, follow the direction he indicates,” she shouted above the din. “Those of you in both lines who are healthy will be sent ahead to the main camp. The elderly, sick and women with children will be sent to an area for special care.” She turned on her heel and walked away towards the iron gate in the distance.

Two men wearing white coats with SS armbands had the new arrivals walk forward one by one. Each line had its own doctor. They inspected everyone carefully, turning people’s heads and flexing their arms. After a few questions about ages and occupations, the doctors pointed either ahead or to the side of the ramp. They pointed far more often to the side.

“Rivka, Miriam,” I whispered, “do not tell the doctor your real ages. Miriam, say you’re fourteen, and Rivka, say you’re sixteen.”

“Why?” Miriam asked.

I had no answer for that. I knew that these ages would be stretching the truth to the breaking point, particularly for Miriam, but something inside was telling me that we needed to try to stay together at all costs. “Just do it,” I ordered them.

“But Miriam,” Rivka protested. “She’s only ten and she looks it too. They’ll never believe her.”

“Do it!” I cried hysterically. They nodded, looking frightened.

Just in front of me, Frau Rosen was screaming for Shmuel and Dr. Rosen, who had both been sent ahead on the men’s line. Obviously Shmuel had lied about his age too. Frau Rosen was sent to the side of the ramp because she was making such a scene. Marta immediately walked forward and held her mother’s hand, even though the doctor had pointed ahead. I thought I saw Dr. and Frau Sternberg walking forward, but I could not be sure. I have not the slightest idea where Father and Mother were.

Miriam, Rivka and I all stepped forward together. Our doctor, unlike the one on the men’s line, held a long wooden cane. I could read the tiny gold nametag pinned to his coat: Josef Mengele. I tried not to flinch away from Dr. Mengele as he slipped his white-gloved hand under my chin and turned my head. His touch reminded me of my encounter with the Nazi soldier in the ghetto cemetery.

“Ages?” he asked in a bored voice.

“Seventeen,” I replied.

“Sixteen,” Rivka lied.

Miriam took a moment to answer. I squeezed her hand, and she said quietly, “Fourteen.”

He pointed his cane at Rivka and me, and then pointed ahead with it. But then Miriam coughed. He grinned, oddly warmly, at her and placed a chocolate in her hand. Then he jerked his cane to the side of the ramp.

“No!” I cried. I dropped to my knees at his feet. “No, please, she’s healthy, it’s only a little cough! Please let her come with us!”

“Please, sir,” Rivka joined in, “she’s our sister!”

Dr. Mengele merely shook his head and grasped Miriam’s arm, thrusting her into the line on the side of the ramp. “Ashira! Rivka!” she shrieked.

“Miriam!” Rivka and I screamed back. But it was too late: she had already disappeared into the crowd. Sobbing, Rivka and I shuffled along the line going straight ahead.

The dark-haired woman met us underneath the iron gate, which bore the words _“Arbeit macht frei.” _Rivka looked up and read the words.__

“Work makes you free?” she whispered. She looked curiously at me. But before I could think of an interpretation for the words, the dark-haired woman led us through the gate. We ended up in a huge room with cubicles on the walls and guards all around us. The men were nowhere to be seen.

I craned my neck, praying that I would see anyone that I loved somewhere, but the dark-haired woman ordered us all to strip down. I obeyed along with everyone else, and more people came in to take our clothes. A golden-haired Nazi guard standing nearby spied Kristian’s cross around my neck. “A Catholic Jew?” he laughed. “Hey, Franz, look! It’s a Catholic Jew! Perhaps we should send her to the zoo back home in Berlin!” I stared at the wall straight ahead and said nothing, though I could feel my face and throat burning with anger at his taunts. I was determined not to demonstrate any more distress in front of the Nazis.

The other guard, Franz, gazed hungrily at the cross. Of course, the hunger in his eyes could have been due to the fact that my breasts were completely visible. I did not put my hands over them, as many others had done, and redirected my eyes from the wall to look defiantly at him. “I don’t know about the zoo, Kurt, but that cross looks like silver,” Franz said. “We should send it off to the sorting facilities. It’ll raise some fine money for the war effort.”

“Let me keep it.” I did not beg; I simply spoke. Rivka stiffened beside me, but she did not protest. “The man I love gave it to me.”

The two of them laughed, but a third younger man approached. He wore tattered striped clothing, and what remained of his hair was brownish-red, reminding me painfully of Kristian. “Let the girl keep her cross,” he suggested softly. “We already get enough, and it won’t hurt anyone.”

“Is that so? What if anyone else sees her wearing it?” snarled Franz, whose eyes were still on my breasts. “They’ll know who let her keep it.”

“Anyway, what’s so special about this one?” Kurt demanded. “She’s just another Jew.”

I felt the seed of defiance in me growing. “Yes, I am a Jew,” I said calmly to him. “Hath not a Jew eyes?”

For a moment, I thought Kurt the guard was going to shoot me. His hand hovered longingly to the gun he held. But then he looked in my eyes, and his resolve seemed to waver: his face whitened, and his hands trembled. Finally he breathed, “Yes.”

“Please, Herr Freiburg,” said the younger man in the striped clothing, taking advantage of Kurt’s moment of pity. When Kurt did not answer, he dug in his pocket and pulled out a few cigarettes. He pressed them into Kurt’s hand, saying, “Be human again.”

Incredibly, Kurt nodded. “Keep your cross, girl,” he growled at me. “Follow the others to the showers.” Franz leered at me as I passed him and pushed my way into the crowd. I grasped Rivka’s hand as we were forced into a room with showerheads sticking out of the ceiling, which sprayed us with icy water.

Then, without providing towels or fresh clothing, the SS guards standing outside the door on the other end of the room pushed a group of thin men holding scissors into the room with us. Several of the women shrieked at the sight of them, but I kept silent. Slowly the women filed past the barbers, and they sheared all of our hair off until there was nothing more than stubble remaining. It was like something from another world, watching my own hair fall to the floor. Long, thick, nut-brown waves landed noiselessly on the tile and joined the river of colors: more brown, shining blond, fiery red, stormy gray, jet black.

When that was done, the dark-haired woman led us back out into the cold. Guards on either side threw outfits to the women at random. The dress I got has stains all down the front, but at least it fits fairly well. It has a kind of badge sewn onto it, with a Star of David made of yellow triangles.

After our clothing was handed out we were led into a room with rows and rows of desks in it. At each desk sat a pair of men, both wearing ragged striped trousers and shirts. One held a long needle-like instrument, and the second was seated at a typewriter. As each woman filed past the men at each desk, she told them her name, and the man with the silver instrument pressed it against people’s arms. He then pinned a scrap of cloth onto each dress.

“Next!” I stepped forward.

“What is your name? I will give you a number in exchange, and Walter will type your name and number down for our records,” the man with the silver instrument said hoarsely. He also had a badge with a yellow star on it, and he had a second scrap of cloth with the number 00743 attached to his chest. His eyes were the saddest eyes I had ever seen: misty gray with a strangely blank look in them, as though a light in them had gone out.

I held my shorn head a little higher. “Ashira,” I said. People had screamed my name so many times in the last hours that it echoed in my head. “My name is Ashira Leidermann.”

He nodded and took my left arm as Walter typed my name down. “Ashira. It is an unusual name,” he said softly, directing the needle at my arm. “But beautiful. _Ashira l'Adonai, _am I correct?"__

__"Yes."__

 _ _"It is similar to Shira. That was my wife’s name.”_ _

____

____

“Was?” I asked nervously.

“That was before,” he sighed. “Like hers, your name is no longer yours. You are Ashira no more, my dear one.”

The needle touched my skin and I felt it burn, but I remembered my resolution not to show any more distress. It left a string of five numbers, and a small triangle, on the inside of my arm.

The tattooing man gave me a scrap of cloth with my number written on it, unsmiling. “You are 93624,” he said, gazing at me with his dead eyes. “Remember this number if you value your life, for the numbers are all that matter to the Nazis. Next!”

After the tattooing room, the soldiers took us all back outside, where the dark-haired woman was waiting for us. I could now properly see the strange place we had been taken. Stark lines of wooden and brick buildings stretched far into the distance. Barbed wire crisscrossed the terrain, separating groups of buildings into sections, and an unearthly hum from the nearest fence told me that it was electrified. A watchtower was placed every seventy feet or so along the perimeter.

We walked for quite a ways in the cold. Our journey took us out of the main area and back towards the fortress-like gate. When we finally went through it, we walked along what could be described as a main street lined by sections of more wood buildings. Electrified barbed-wire fences separated the sections, just like in the other half of this place. Thousands of other people scurried about around what looked like half-built railroad spurs. All of them were dressed in striped clothing like ours. They all seemed to be women, but I could not be sure because they all looked the same, with their tattered clothing and skeletal bodies.

At last, we reached our destination: a portion with barracks only for women. It lies in the shadow of two strange buildings with smokestacks. Sparks and smoke furled from the tops of the stacks like a fireworks show, accompanied by an awful sweetish smell. Though I did not know what the smokestack buildings were for, I couldn’t suppress a shudder.

The tall, dark-haired woman addressed us as soon as we arrived at a half-full barrack. “Listen up, Jews,” she snarled. “As you are my _Zugänge, _newcomers to Auschwitz, it is my duty to inform you about this building. It is your new home. My name is Frieda Ryne, and I am the_ Blockälteste,_ head over this block. You will answer to me if you give anyone in Auschwitz any trouble. Got it?” When no one dared to answer, she scowled and said, “When you hear the whistle this evening, report to the _Appel _if you know what’s good for you.” She marched away without bothering to explain what an_ Appel_ is.

I glanced around the block, as Frau Ryne called them. It was large enough for maybe two hundred people, yet there were around eight hundred women in here. The beds were hard wooden bunks, supported by shaky beams and giving no comfort besides thin straw mattresses. Once Frau Ryne had left, Rivka approached one of the women already in the block. “Excuse me, but could you please tell us what in God’s name an _Appel _is?”__

The woman shook her head and muttered something in Polish. Rivka then repeated her question in Yiddish, and the woman scowled. “Filthy _Zugänge _who’re lucky enough to not know anything,” she growled in Yiddish. “The_ Appel_ is the roll call. Just follow us and do what we do. Now don’t ask me any more questions.”

After this less-than-warm welcome, Rivka sat beside me on an empty bunk near the middle of the block without speaking to any other older prisoners. Looking around, I saw that all of them seemed rather hostile to we _Zugänge. _Rivka rubbed the number on her arm: 99718. “Go to sleep, Rivka,” I told her softly.__

“You mean number 99718,” she replied miserably, still staring blankly at her number.

I put my hands on her shoulders. “Rivka, look at me.” She refused, and a strange fury erupted in me. I grabbed both sides of her head and spun it around so that she was facing me. I repeated fiercely, _“Look at me.” _She shuddered and the tears started to come, sliding down her pale cheeks and onto my fingers, but I did not let go of her face. “That number is not who you are. You are Rivka Leidermann, my sister. We will not lose sight of who we are, even if everyone around us does.”__

She sobbed in earnest, and I let go of her. My anger fading, I put my arms around her and held her. “What happened to Miriam?” she gulped after a few minutes of crying. “That Mengele man was separating people back on the railroad platform. Why? Where did they go?”

I choked back tears of my own. I had a dreadful suspicion, but I could not bear to share it. “I don’t know,” I murmured. “But we can’t show any more distress in front of the Nazis. We must not give them that satisfaction.” Rivka nodded, and she lay down on our wooden bunk.

I joined her, but I still cannot sleep. Thoughts of Mother, Father, Miriam, Marta and my sweet Kristian are tormenting my brain. What numbers do they have, wherever they are?  
Ashira (93624)


	8. Chapter 8

November 1943

I have already lost track of the date here in Auschwitz. The only thing I am sure of is that it is November 1943.

The camp is divided into three branches: Auschwitz I, Auschwitz II-Birkenau and Auschwitz III-Monowitz. Birkenau is where Rivka and I live, around two miles away from Auschwitz I. Prisoners also live in the other branches, but I believe the majority of them are here in Birkenau. The women and the men live in separate parts of camp. I pass the men’s camp every day on the way to work, but I have not seen Kristian.

Each day consists of the same routine: wake-up whistle at four-thirty in the morning, _Appel _and counting of prisoners, breakfast, divide into our work_ Kommandos,_ work until lunch, work some more, evening _Appel, _punishment administration. If we’re lucky and punishments do not take all night, we get supper afterward and then some free time until curfew. The work_ Kommandos_ do a wide variety of jobs in Auschwitz, mainly to support the German war effort or keep the camp running smoothly. My _Kommando _digs up stone in a nearby quarry, as does Rivka's. I have never seen Monowitz, but I have heard that the men living there work in the rubber plant.__

Sunday is our “day off,” but we do not truly have the day to ourselves. We spend it cleaning everything: the blocks, the kitchens, the hospitals and the latrines. Birkenau, however, is so utterly filthy that cleaning does not make much of a difference. I have gotten to know virtually every part of the camp through cleaning, save for the buildings with the smokestacks. Only Nazi officials and a special team of male prisoners, the _Sonderkommando, _are allowed access to those buildings. I do not really know what the_ Sonderkommando_ does, but it must be a very grim job. I have seen some of its members through the wire. Even though they are better-fed and less pale than average prisoners, they are much sadder-looking than everyone else.

Every prisoner must do her work as quickly and accurately as possible and without complaint, or she will receive a blow from the SS guard or _Kapo. _The_ Kapos_ are the heads of the _Kommandos. _My_ Kapo_ is Frau Landra Schneider, one of the cruelest women in Birkenau. She beats without provocation, like many of the _Kapos. _One must be very careful not to insult any of them, because if they get wind of it they will recommend the insulter’s number for the next “selection.” That is what we call it when doctors separate those who cannot work anymore from the ones who still have some strength, and the people taken away are never seen again.__

Our daily rations are thus: a tiny piece of bread at breakfast and supper if we get it, some fake coffee at breakfast and a bowl of turnip-and-potato soup at lunch or supper. About once a week, we get “extra allowances” such as a piece of sausage, some moldy cheese or a bit of watery jam. These scraps are barely enough to keep someone not performing extreme physical labor alive, so one is forced to try to find extra sources of nourishment. Most accomplish this by working their way up the camp ladder of authority and abandoning their friends and allies. Rivka and I have agreed to never play this game, even if we were at the brink of starvation.

Therefore, when someone dies in the block during the night, we search her for any food scraps. This has proven quite effective, grotesque as it is. People keep extra food on them to prevent it from being stolen. One might say that it is immoral to steal from the dead, but here is the rub: the dead no longer need the extra food.

Another, less effective technique is to hope that others’ altruism will get you more food. I had one kitchen worker give me extra this evening. When I walked up to the girl with filthy blond stubble on the supper line, she dug down into the soup canister and fished out a spoonful of peas for me while the SS guards were not paying attention. “Here,” she said quietly. It was a shock for me to hear her speak German. Most of the prisoners here seem to be from Poland and can only communicate with Rivka and me through Yiddish.

“Thank you!” I gasped, taking my bowl of soup with extra peas. I later shared these more nutritious bits with Rivka, who has not been eating well ever since we heard that Father was “selected.” I cannot grieve for him. My mind is so focused on keeping my sister and myself alive that it has no time or room for anything else.

The girl smiled and winked at me. A patch covered her left eye, but the other one was green and kind. Her badge had a purple triangle, a mark I had not seen before. “We must all help each other survive here,” she said. “Meet me below the smokestacks after evening Appel in three days if you’d like to know more. If you can’t find me, ask any prisoner in your block for Helena Lübke.” As I walked away, I looked back and saw Helena Lübke bringing up a few potatoes from the bottom of the soup canister for another woman.

I am amazed that one human heart beats in this place other than Rivka’s and mine. We still have not seen Mother, Marta, Shmuel, Kristian, or anyone else separated from us on the _Judenrampe. ___

____

I fear that the Angel of Death has claimed them all.  
Ashira (93624)

November 1943

After supper this evening Rivka and I went out toward the smokestack buildings to find Helena Lübke. As we searched, I noticed with sadness the abrupt change in the girl who is supposed to be my sister. She has vanished and left a pale, silent shell with matted black stubble for hair in her place. Her number, 99718, stood out starkly against her dirty arm.

As promised, Helena was waiting for us, wearing a ragged blue coat over her striped dress. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Rivka glancing nervously at the watchtowers and the lights they cast. Yesterday we saw one of the guards in a tower shoot a woman who had collapsed.

Helena must have noticed, for she gently laid her hand on Rivka’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. _“Appel _ended early tonight. We’re free to do whatever we want within Birkenau. What are your names? I’m Helena Lübke.”__

“Ashira Leidermann,” I whispered. “And she’s my sister Rivka.”

“Rivka and Ashira Leidermann,” murmured Helena. “You’re Jews? I ask because you’re wearing a crucifix.”

I touched Kristian’s silver cross. “Yes, we’re Jews,” I replied. “The man I am in love with was Catholic and he gave it to me. _Is _Catholic,” I corrected myself.__

“I see,” said Helena. “Let us walk together, Rivka and Ashira.”

We walked away from the smokestacks. “What are they for?” Rivka asked, looking back at them.

A cold, twisted smile broke across Helena’s face. “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” she replied.

“We need to know,” I insisted. “Nobody’s willing to tell us anything except you. What are those buildings for?”

Helena looked around. When she had made sure that there was no one to hear her answer except us, she sighed and said bitterly, “They’re the gateway to God. Do you know what that smell is that hangs over Birkenau?” We shook our heads. “It’s the smell of burning human flesh. Anyone who is not fit for work or who resists the Nazis is sent to gas chambers, where they’re suffocated with poison gas. Later their bodies are burned in those buildings with the smokestacks.”

“No,” I whispered. It was too terrible, too awful, for me to believe. “No. That can’t be true, it just can’t.”

“Can't it?” said Helena. “Have you seen the Birkenau _Sonderkommando, _the men who look so healthy and well-fed, walking around?” When we nodded, she continued, “They herd people into the gas chambers. After the prisoners are dead, they must burn the corpses in the crematoria and bury the ashes.”__

I shuddered. So Kristian’s suspicions had been right: Auschwitz is much, much more than a simple prison or labor center. It is a death factory. I barely heard Helena’s next words because of the horror seeping through me.

“When someone speaks of selections, it means that people are being chosen for the gas. I witnessed a selection in the hospital block two days ago, when I went to speak to the head doctor about volunteering as a nurse there. Dr. Mengele, the Angel of Death, came into the hospital block and looked over all of the prisoners. Among those he chose for the gas was a woman named Emilia, who had caught typhus.”

Rivka stopped dead, the little color left in her face draining away. “Was her name Emilia Leidermann?” she stammered.

I felt my heart stop. Mother…

“Yes.” Helena placed a hand on Rivka’s arm and patted it gently. “I’m sorry.”

Rivka turned her tearstained face to Helena’s. “You’re sorry!” she shrieked. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Rivka!” I gasped. Even though we had just discovered that our mother had been terribly murdered, she had no right to speak so harshly.

Then the full force of Rivka’s anger and grief broke over me. “Our parents were killed. The Rosens, the Gräbes and the Sternbergs are all missing. Miriam was taken away from us before she even had a chance to work here. We’ve lost everything except each other, Ashira! And all this stranger tells us is that she’s _sorry!” ___

“It’s all I can say,” Helena murmured. “I too have lost everything. My parents and younger sister died in the gas chambers, and Dr. Mengele conducted a scientific experiment on my twin brother Otto and me. He wanted to try and turn our eyes blue by injecting some kind of chemical into them. It failed for me.”

She lifted the patch over her left eye, and I recoiled. Where there should have been an eye, there was only an expanse of skin. Looking closer, I could see clumsily done stitches.

“My eye became infected and had to be removed,” she said, lowering the patch. “I don’t know if the same thing happened to Otto. I haven’t seen him since the experiment.” She sighed and turned to me, adding, “Who were these people that Rebekah mentioned, Ashira?”

I swallowed, unsure that I would be able to get the words out. “Shmuel Rosen, Rivka's beloved, and his father.”

“Herr Rosen was picked by Dr. Mengele for another of his experiments, I heard it in the hospital. He’s probably dead now,” Helena said. “As to Shmuel, I can’t say.”

“Kristian Sternberg, my beloved, and his parents,” I said.

“And our friend Marta Rosen, her mother and our sister Miriam were sent to the side of the railway platform when we came here,” Rivka finished.

“They were? Then they’re all gone too. Those sent to the side of the _Judenrampe _are immediately sent here, to Birkenau, for the gas.”__

“No!” screamed Rivka, and fleetingly I saw her glance at the electrified fence.

Helena must have seen it too. She spun Rivka around and spoke in a low, calming voice. “Rivka, you must not touch that fence. You must live and remember.”

Rivka tried to pull away, but Helena kept a strong grasp on her arm and seized mine as well. “Please, listen to me. I know what one must do to survive in this place.”

“What gives you the authority to tell us anything?” snarled Rivka.

“This!” Helena said sternly, holding up her arm and displaying the number there: 00451. “I was one of Auschwitz’s first inmates, taken here for one reason: I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. My family and I were imprisoned because the Nazis dislike our religion, much like you. I’m not so different from any of you Jewish girls, and I can be a great ally to you.

“Now _listen,” _she said, her one green eye glittering with intensity. “I know how to get the things you need to stay alive and how to avoid the things that will hurt your chances. I teach others how to survive, and they pass on what I show them, and so we create a chain of survival and care. Passing on knowledge is our only chance of having witnesses when this is over.”__

Without meaning to, I smiled at Helena. “Teach us,” I said, and the three of us turned around and began to walk down the main road.

“First, the triangles on our badges are very important. They tell you who can be a friend and who to avoid. The marks you need to know about are the black and green triangles. A person with a black triangle is a Gypsy, and criminals have green triangles. Stay away from these people at all costs. Interacting with the Gypsies won’t put you in decent standing with the Nazis, and the criminals might not stop at killing you if you get on their wrong side.

“Second, the numbers can tell you who is best at organizing things.”

“Come again?” said Rivka.

“Organizing things, this coat for instance,” Helena replied, smiling. “It means to steal or get hold of something. People with low numbers like mine can help you get anything that you need until you can organize it on your own: extra food, clothes, medicines and so on.

“Third, if you’re around the SS or _Kapos, _pretend that you don’t know anything about the gassings. If you’re caught telling people about them, you’ll be sent to the chambers because you know too much.__

“And last, but not least,” she concluded, _“Kanada, _or the sorting facility. It pays to know someone who works there, because things can be organized from it. I know a Russian girl named Natasha in there, and she’ll be able to help me organize things for you. You’ll need to organize things for me to repay her, though, perhaps an extra piece of bread.”__

I smiled at Helena. Though my head spun slightly with all of this new information, knowing that she wanted to help us made the situation just a tiny bit better. Then a flash of inspiration struck me. “Helena,” I said carefully, “is it possible to contact the men? Kristian is in that camp, if he hasn’t been…”

My throat went dry and I couldn’t finish my sentence. But Helena did it for me: “If he hasn’t been selected. I’ll try, but it may take a few days. What was his full name again?”

“Kristian Sternberg. He’s an Aryan, I don’t know if that’ll help you identify him.”

Helena looked surprised. “An Aryan in a relationship with a Jew? I thought the Nuremberg Laws forbade that?”

“They did,” I said defiantly. “Kristian risked his life to keep in touch with me in the ghetto in Minsk. His family does not support the Nazis.”

“Kristian Sternberg, Aryan, Catholic, arrived from Minsk, in love with Ashira Leidermann,” Helena recited. “I should be able to find him if I get the job in the hospital. It’s very easy to get information in there, because people come and go through it so regularly.”

Just then, we heard the whistle that alerts curfew. "Good night, Rivka and Ashira," Helena said.

I don't know what made me give a virtual stranger permission to use my nickname, but I did it. "Please, call me Ashi."

Helena smiled. "Very well," she said. "Good night, Rivka and Ashi." She turned away and walked back to her block alone.

Frightened as I am, I too am determined to beat the Nazis at their own game.  
Ashira (93624)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long gap between the last chapter and this one. I was out of town with no Internet access. I'll try and do better with the last few. :)

Winter 1943

I organized some pieces of paper and pencils from _Kanada, _with Helena and Natasha’s help. It is such a relief to write freely again. But this is not the reason that I chose this day to write. Today I learned that although we are living alongside the Angel of Death, God is here also. I know this because He sent me a blessing.__

Kristian is alive.

It happened yesterday, when we had some time to ourselves after _Appel. _I was taking a walk, beating my usual path up and down the main road, when Helena came running up to me. “Ashi, Ashi, come with me!” she said ecstatically, taking my hand. “There’s something I want to show you!”__

She pulled me towards the dividing wire between the men’s camp and the women’s. We paused at the edge of the ditch separating the camp from the fence. I hesitated before going near it. The guards in the watchtowers shoot anyone who looks as if they are going to jump this ditch and throw themselves on the wire. But Helena whispered in my ear, “That guard won’t shoot. Look, he’s sleeping on the job.” She pointed at the tower, and I saw that the guard was indeed dozing, his head resting against one of the windows.

As we drew near the edge of the ditch I saw a tall, thin figure standing on the other side of the fence by the light of the watchtowers, gazing out at the forest in the distance. Though the stained trousers and shirt made him look extremely similar to the other prisoners, though the waves of hair had been shorn to brown stubble like everyone else’s had, I recognized him instantly. Such joy flooded me that I was speechless, but Helena squeezed my hand. “Do something to get his attention,” she instructed.

I forgot my promise to not show emotion in front of my captors. Tears stung my eyes, and I found myself whispering a set of lines from _The Merchant of Venice: _“O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, / In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess! / I feel too much thy blessing.” As a shout would have awakened the guard and gotten all three of us killed, I picked up a stone and threw it over the fence. It landed right on target beside him, striking him on the foot.__

Kristian jumped and spun around. Even from a distance I could see how exhausted and defeated he looked. A red mark was on his shirt: he had been classified as a political prisoner. For a moment he gazed at me as if I was a ghost. Then I saw him gasp my name. _“Ashira?” ___

I nodded, shaking with my sobs. Far away, on the opposite side of the wire, I could see Kristian putting his head in his hands and trembling as he wept. When I turned to look at Helena, I saw that even though she was beaming, her one eye was wet.

“How?” was all I could manage to get out of my mouth.

“You know I got the job working in the hospital block,” she replied, wiping her eye. “Two days ago I was tending to one of the inmates’ sores when Dr. Mengele came through to make another selection. He addressed one of the doctors with him as Sternberg. I pulled Dr. Sternberg aside to ask him about dressing the sores, and I told him to tell Kristian to come here tonight. And he did.”

I looked back at Kristian. Hoping he would understand what I was asking, I raised my arm and pointed at my number. I signed each digit in the air: 9-3-6-2-4. He raised his hands and repeated my gesture: 9-7-7-3-1.

Just then the whistle blew. “Ashi, we have to go,” Helena murmured, touching my arm and glancing up at the watchtower. The noise had awoken the guard: he was shifting in place and stretching his arms.

“All right,” I said. Looking at Kristian again, I blew him a kiss, and he blew one back to me from the other side of the wire. Then Helena took my hand, and we scurried away from the ditch before the guard regained his bearings.

“Helena,” I whispered to her once we were safely away from the watchtowers, “I know what I’m going to ask you is dangerous. But I need to hear from Kristian.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to write to him. Will you take the letters to the hospital and get them to Dr. Sternberg somehow? Then he can take them to Kristian.”

Helena smiled at me. “You and Kristian love each other very deeply, I can see that,” she replied. “I’d be willing to do anything to help you keep in touch with him. I shall tell Dr. Sternberg about your idea as soon as I can.”  
Ashira (93624)

Winter 1943

My plan has been a success. Helena brings my letters to the hospital block and leaves them under one particular mattress. Dr. Sternberg picks them up when he comes to the block for selections with Dr. Mengele. I received my first letter from Kristian this evening. I shall keep it and my scrap paper entries underneath a stone outside of my block.

“My dearest Ashira,  
“I cannot express my relief at the discovery you are alive. Every day the knowledge that you live keeps me strong.  
“I am in the men’s camp here at Birkenau, as you know. Because I am an Aryan, I have been given the opportunity to work as a _Kapo. _My_ Kommando_ digs trenches for railway lines outside of Auschwitz. Never fear, I use my post to protect my men and help them. I have become friends with a boy named Aaron, who lives in my block and works in _Kanada. _He organizes extra food and medicines for me, which I then give to the men on my_ Kommando._ I bribe my _Blockältester _to keep quiet with liquor and cigarettes that I receive from Aaron.__  
“The SS truly are more naïve than they look. They think that I will behave like them, when they know full well that I came here for being sympathetic to Jews. Ashi, my love, I wish that you could see how easy it is to fool them into thinking that I am a good _Kapo _by their standards! All I have to do when the guards are near is start bellowing at my men (who know I mean them no harm at all) and cracking my whip at thin air, nowhere near them. The guards then praise me for my actions and tell me that I am a true_ Kapo_ of Birkenau!  
“Please write back as soon as possible and tell me about your life in Auschwitz. I pray that we shall see one another again soon.  
“Much love, Kristian.”

Oh, Kristian, the knowledge that you live keeps me strong too!  
Ashira (93624)

Winter 1943

Helena, Rivka and I have formed a kind of family. We protect each other, share items that we have organized and prevent each other from giving up the fight to live. Even though we do not live in the same block, we have a wonderful support system, and one without which I would have given in long ago. Woe to those poor women who do not have such “families”: they have a difficult time adjusting if there is no one to help them.

Helena is such a good, kind soul. She goes above and beyond simply providing support: she risks her life regularly by helping me write to Kristian. She asks for nothing in return. After she brought his last letter and I thanked her for everything she has done, she smiled and told me, “If I die trying to alleviate the suffering in Auschwitz, at least I will not have died in vain.”  
Ashira (93624)

Winter 1943

I have further lost track of time. Every day blurs into the next in Auschwitz, a never-ending cycle of work and food and sleeping, with the only “exciting” thing being the selections. So far no one else I love has been selected, though Mari, a woman from Poland in my block, told me that the kitchen _Kapo _was. Her replacement is Frau Sternberg, Kristian’s mother. I shall have to pass on the good news to him when I can.__

Even in the darkness of Auschwitz, there are some bright moments. A flock of geese flew over camp this morning while we were going to the quarry. Helena and Natasha have organized some shoes and coats for Rivka and me. That is good because we had a big snow two days ago, and Helena has warned us of the dangers of getting frostbite. She has also convinced Frau Sternberg to allow Rivka and me to join the kitchen _Kommando. _We assume this position in a few days.__

I receive letters from Kristian fairly regularly, and he gives me updates on what happens to his _Kommando _and his father in the men’s hospital. He told me in his last letter, “I pray for you each night, pray that you will survive this hell on earth. I love you.” Kristian’s letters are more precious than gold to me.__

But best of all, I was able to organize a new journal from _Kanada. _Natasha helped me organize it. She found it in a woman’s suitcase and, hearing of my love for writing from Helena, she got it to me. I have transcribed my mental journal entries into the first pages of this new journal. I now keep the journal, my scrap paper entries and Kristian’s letters hidden inside the pocket of my new coat.__

Carrying my writings with me everywhere I go not only serves as a constant reminder of why I wish to live, it is also a protective measure. If I were to leave them lying around, no doubt someone in my block would show them to the proper authorities. My level of knowledge, recordings of the Nazis’ crimes and correspondence with Kristian are all enough to get everyone I mention killed.  
Ashira (93624)


	10. Chapter 10

Winter 1943

I have now joined the Birkenau kitchen _Kommando. _My first day of reporting was most strange. This was the first time that Rivka and I had interacted with Frau Sternberg since we were captured. When we entered the kitchen, I saw that she was holding a whip in her hands, which is never a good sign.__

Nevertheless, we approached her. “Frau Sternberg, it’s us!” Rivka cried, running towards her. “Rivka and Ashira!”

Instead of greeting us with joy, Frau Sternberg raised her whip threateningly. “Get away from me, Jew swine!” she shrieked.

Shock rooted us to the spot. “Frau Sternberg, don’t you remember us?” I whispered. “I’m Ashira Leidermann. This is my sister Rivka. You've known me since I was a child, and Rivka ever since she was born!”

There was a look in Frau Sternberg’s eyes that I had never seen in them: hunted, enraged, wild. “Oh, yes, I remember you well enough,” she said in a low, fierce voice. “It was because of you and my foolish son that my family ended up here. Perhaps the Nazis were right about you Jews all along.” She took a deep breath and said bluntly, “I won’t beat you two, because I know you, but I won’t help you either. Now get to work making the soup for supper. _Schnell.” ___

__Though she did not scream the word, it stung my ears. Rivka wept silently all through our first day, and it was all I could do to not join her. It is a testament to the horrors of this place that Frau Sternberg now hates us, and blames us for what has happened to her and her family. It is incredible that circumstance can tear away someone who knew and loved you all your life. Someone who was almost like a second mother._ _

____

I have decided not to speak to Kristian of his mother’s survival. I would have to tell him that she has become a monster, and I cannot bear to do that. It is better that he be kept in the dark, when the alternative is to know what a horrible fate has befallen her.  
Ashira (93624)

Winter 1943

Frau Sternberg is entirely different from the woman I once knew. She treats Rivka and me with relative indifference, but the other kitchen girls are not so lucky. She screams at them and I once saw her whip Mari when Mari could not understand directions. Mari does not speak German, so that is a problem. Rivka and I have agreed to avoid Frau Sternberg when we can. She is too unpredictable for encounters with her to be safe.

In spite of Frau Sternberg’s horribly changed personality, being on the kitchen _Kommando _has worked out well. We take it in turns to distribute the daily rations to our fellow prisoners. We also carry the soup cans between the kitchens and work sites, which can be tricky because they are so heavy. Sometimes our duties include helping cook the soup and bread, or cleaning the kitchens themselves.__

It is hard work, but it is easier and warmer than the quarry, and it does not go without rewards. Occasionally one of us can organize some extra food.  
Ashira (93624)

Winter 1943

Yesterday evening when Rivka and I returned to our block, Mari walked shyly up to us. Her face still bore the marks of Frau Sternberg’s whip. “Did you know tonight’s the first night of Chanukah?” she said quietly in Yiddish.

“No,” I replied in Yiddish. “I lost track of the days long ago.”

“How did you find out?” whispered Rivka.

“There’s a woman here in our block, Beulah, who kept track,” Mari said.

I shrugged. “What’s the point of knowing it’s Chanukah when we can’t celebrate it?”

“Oh, but we can, Ashira,” Mari said. I was stunned to hear the glee in her voice. “Beulah and I persuaded Frau Ryne to look the other way. We’ll celebrate tonight only, and we’ll organize extra treats for Frau Ryne so that she won’t say anything. Everyone Beulah and I have talked to has agreed to chip in something. Will you help too?”

“All right,” Rivka spoke for both of us. “But how will we celebrate? We don’t have a menorah or candles or anything.” 

“Beulah!” called Mari softly. A short young woman approached. She looked as if she had once been quite plump, but had lost most of her weight to the hard labor and abysmal food in Auschwitz. Mari jabbered some direction to her in rapid Polish.

Grinning, Beulah returned to the bunk she had been sleeping on. There were grumbles as she pushed a few of her bunkmates aside and pulled a long piece of wood from under the thin straw mattress. She carried this block of wood to the middle of the room and held it up so that all of us could see it. There were eight holes carved into it. One of the inmates stirred to look at the wood. She mumbled something in Polish to Mari, who replied in Polish. Seeing Rivka’s and my confused faces, she said in Yiddish, “Beulah and I carved the holes out with our spoons.”

Mari started digging underneath her bunk’s mattress. She made some triumphant exclamation in Polish, pulling out a handful of lumps of wax. “I got these from Leah, my friend in _Kanada,” _she told me and Rivka, inserting each lump of wax into a hole. Upon getting closer, I saw that there was a piece of string sticking out of each lump for a wick. Looking around the block, Mari said, “Does anyone have something we can light them with?” She said it twice: once in Polish and once in Yiddish. I then translated it into German.__

There was a pause. Then one of the women pulled a single wooden match out of her shoe. Beulah took the match as Mari placed the _“menorah” _in the middle of the floor. Everyone in the block began to stir. It was the first time I had seen anything like curiosity appear on my comrades’ faces since my arrival at Auschwitz. Even the sick and most exhausted of the prisoners raised their heads ever so slightly.__

“Who would like to light the candles?” Beulah asked, again in multiple languages. When no one answered, she handed the match to me. “Why don’t you do it, Ashira?” she asked in Yiddish.

Surprised, I struck the match and approached the menorah. The bright orange flame seemed to draw every eye as I touched it to each wick. The pieces of string lit as soon as the fire touched them. I thought of another set of lines from _The Merchant of Venice: _“How far that little candle throws his beams! / So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”__

Mari stood and began to recite the _Brachot, _the three blessings that are said over the Chanukah candles. She was a rabbi's daughter, so it seemed only fitting that she should carry out this sacred office. No other voice spoke with her. It was as if God was speaking to us through her, consoling us. As I listened to Mari’s voice and to the silence from my fellow prisoners, I mused that human courage and resilience could never truly be destroyed if one fights hard enough, not even in Auschwitz.__

When Mari was done with the _Brachot, _she smiled. "Let us sing," she said quietly. "Let us sing to our God and celebrate, in defiance." I felt a smile come to my face too, and Rivka and Beulah echoed it. Our comrades joined in: everyone, even the sick lying on the floor, sat up with greater attention. I wondered what song Mari was going to choose. The words flowed effortlessly from her tongue:__

_"Ashira l'Adonai ki gaoh gaah. Ashira l'Adonai ki gaoh gaah."_

___It was my song. I beamed even bigger, filled my lungs, and sang the rest as loudly as I could along with her. Our comrades joined us: the words spread through the block, filling us all with the warmth one normally feels near fire. The music swelled and billowed as the eight flames danced in time to our song._ _ _

_____ _

_"Mi khamokha ba'elim Adonai? Mi khamokha ne'dar baqodesh? ___  
_Nah'ita veh'asdekha 'am-zu ga-alta. Nah'ita veh'asdekha 'am-zu ga-alta. ___  
_Ashira, Ashira, Ashira." ___

___I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously. ___  
_Who is like You, O Lord, among the celestial? ___  
_Who is like You, majestic in holiness? ___  
_In Your love, You lead the people You redeemed. ___  
_I will sing, I will sing, I will sing. ___

____

__

_____ _

__

Then Frau Ryne came in to investigate the noise and told us in no uncertain terms that her agreement to keep quiet would come to an end if we continued being so obvious about it. So, we all retired to our bunks. Even though she technically was not supposed to, Mari blew out the candles on our menorah so that the block would not catch fire in the night.  
Ashira (93624)

Winter 1944

Now I have no choice but to tell Kristian that I have interacted with his mother. She is dead, and I am obligated to let him know.

Earlier today, Rivka and I dropped our soup can on the way to the supper line. Frau Sternberg charged up to us, her eyes bulging with fear and rage. “You clumsy pigs!” she shrieked. “Who is responsible for this?”

I squared my shoulders. No matter what happened to me, I would not allow my sister to be harmed if I could prevent it. “I spilled the soup, Frau Sternberg. My handle slipped and the can fell over.”

Out the corner of my eye, I saw Rivka start to protest, but I shook my head slightly to tell her to hold her tongue. Frau Sternberg noticed nothing because her anger was so great. “Get down and start counting, Jew!” she cried, raising her whip. “Lose track of where we are and we start all over again!”

Before Rivka gave me away, I got down on my stomach in the muddy snow. Frau Sternberg raised her whip and started to lash it on my back. “One,” I muttered through gritted teeth. The whip fell again, this time on my arms. “Two.” I kept counting and attempted not to scream as the whip rained down upon my back, head, arms, legs, anywhere it could reach.

After ten, the blows suddenly halted. I found the courage to look up at Frau Sternberg. She had frozen, her whip arm still raised, and she was gazing down at my bloody dress. Then her eyes, dark like Kristian’s, met mine. In that moment, I knew that she was remembering exactly who I was, and what risks our two families had run so that her son and I could be together. Neither of us spoke, but I felt as if oceans of words were passing between us.

Frau Sternberg’s whip arm fell, and she staggered away. The same look like a hunted animal that I had seen at our first meeting in Auschwitz appeared on her white face. “Ashi,” she gasped.

“Yes,” I whispered, using Rivka to pull myself to my feet.

Frau Sternberg had tears in her eyes. She dropped her whip and ran into the kitchens, leaving us behind. I glanced at Rivka and said, “Let’s get back to work.”

Much later, Rivka and Mari supported me during _Appel. _Though Frau Sternberg had not whipped me for that long, I was still weak. As the SS began their counting procedure, I saw a lone woman race out of the crowd. I did not need the pinch on my arm or the hiss in my ear from Rivka to tell me who it was.__

“Frau Sternberg! What is she doing?”

The guards turned their guns on her, but Frau Sternberg kept running and dodged their bullets. With horror I realized that she was running towards the electrified fence. “No!” I screamed, but it was too late: she leapt clean over the ditch. For a moment, I felt a strange thrill as she soared like a bird at the fence, bullets flying all around her. Then there was a deafening crack and a screech of pain as she hit the wire, and she fell to the ground, dead. The SS summoned the _Sonderkommando _to take her body away and_ Appel_ continued as usual.

Later in the block, it was all anyone could talk about. Everyone was wondering the same thing: why had she done it? Rivka and I know why, though we did not speak of it. Frau Sternberg realized that the Nazis had slowly turned her into one of them. She had decided to take her own life rather than survive Auschwitz knowing that they had broken her.  
Ashira (93624)


	11. Chapter 11

Winter 1944

Often, Helena tells me, people in the camp lose hope. Usually it is the ones who have lost all of their loved ones to selections, suicide or illness. They see their existences as pointless without their friends and families. They are called _Muselmänner: _people who decide that life is no longer worth fighting for and consequently die more swiftly than people who want to hold on.__

Helena pointed out one of the _Muselmänner _to me today. The woman’s name, she said, was Petra. She had lost her entire family to the gas chambers. When I looked at Petra, I saw that her face was much paler than one normally sees in camp. Her shoulders were hunched in a manner that spoke of total despair, and her eyes had the same blank look about them that I had seen in the eyes of the man who tattooed the number on my arm.__

“They choose to give up,” Helena whispered sadly to me. “Any human has a chance to take his or her suffering as an opportunity for growth. The _Muselmänner _are the ones who don’t choose that frame of mind. Petra will probably be gone within a couple of weeks.”__

“Can’t we help them?” I asked as Petra walked away with a slow, shuffling gait. I have seen so many lifeless eyes since I came to Auschwitz, and my heart aches with pity for all of them.

Helena shook her head. “When someone chooses to surrender, it’s best to let them go.”

“Let them go?”

“Yes. It’s painful, very painful, especially if the person is someone you love. But letting go is necessary for your own survival. You can’t let their hopelessness rub off on you.”

“You must also choose the opposite path, right?” Rivka said quietly.

Helena’s one green eye glowed with a kind of fire. “Yes, Rivka,” she said. “In order to stop yourself from becoming one of the _Muselmänner _you must find something to live for, something that will make your suffering worth it. For example, I want to live because I wish to remember those who haven’t made it. I also choose life in the hopes that I’ll someday be reunited with my brother Otto.”__

She paused, turning to me. “What will you live for, Ashi?” she asked.

I put my hand into my coat pocket, where I felt my journal and the scraps of paper that are my early Auschwitz entries and Kristian’s letters. “I love Shakespeare, so I always wanted to be a playwright,” I told her.

“Good,” said Helena, taking my hand as we walked. “So you’ll live for your writing. What else?”

“I will live for my sisters Rivka and Miriam, and for my parents,” I said, and Rivka smiled and took my free hand. We continued walking in the direction of the hospital blocks, away from the smokestacks. “I will live for you,” I added, looking at Helena. “I will live for those who have gone _there.” _I gestured back at the smokestacks, and Rivka nodded solemnly. For a moment emotion constricted my throat, so I paused.__

“Anything else?” Helena prompted gently, after giving me a moment to compose myself.

“Yes,” I whispered, fingering the silver cross that Kristian gave me. “I will live for Kristian. I told him once that the Angel of Death himself couldn’t stop me from loving him.”

Helena smiled wearily. “I think you’re probably right,” she murmured.

We paused outside of one of the blocks, and a wonderful, reckless idea took hold of me. “Make sure no one’s watching,” I told Helena and Rivka. They looked around, and when they nodded to say that the coast was clear, I pulled a pencil out of my coat pocket. The other two watched as I carved a single phrase into the wooden wall of the nearest block with the sharp end of my pencil: _I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? _  
Ashira (93624)__

Winter 1944

I received another letter from Kristian during _Appel. _Somehow I wound up on the wrong block, but luckily the numbers tallied so that my mistake was not noticed. Helena was standing right beside me, and she slipped the letter into my hand when she recognized me. I gave her a piece of bread that I organized yesterday.__

Tonight in the block, I read Kristian’s letter quietly to Rebekah.

“My dearest Ashira,  
“Thank you for telling me about what happened to Mother. Part of me grieves for her, but Father said something yesterday that was both terrible and true. He said, ‘At least she died on her own terms. Perhaps it is better this way. I would prefer her to be dead than to have her live with such suffering.’  
“I too have some dreadful news to share. Shmuel Rosen, Marta’s brother, is dead. Father told me when we returned to our block two nights ago. Dr. Mengele chose Shmuel for another experiment, and Father saw everything. Poor Shmuel was submerged in ice water so that Dr. Mengele could see how long a person could stand it. Shmuel froze to death, and afterward Father had to dissect his corpse to see if there were any internal changes. When Father came back to our block, he vomited all over the floor and was forced to clean it up. He has not stopped weeping since.  
“Aside from the loss of Shmuel, all is relatively well for Father and me in the men’s camp. Aaron and my _Blockältester _still have not informed the SS about my smuggling. Though some of the men on my_ Kommando_ have died with the cold weather, many of them are still fighting, every minute of every day, to survive. I would love for you to meet them one day, when we are all free.  
“I have a secret that I wish to confess to you now, my beautiful Ashi. I have loved you for a very long time. I just never had the courage to say so. But facing death every day has given me that courage.  
“I love you, Ashira. And I promise you that nothing, not even Nazis, will ever take that away from me.  
“Much love, Kristian.”

When I had finished reading, Rivka said, “We should say the _Kaddish _for Shmuel.” She was crying, but her voice was remarkably steady. “He can’t join Marta alone.”__

I nodded, and we grasped hands in the crowded bunk. As we did not have enough time to recite the whole prayer, we whispered only the last line: _“Titqabbal tzlothon uva’ut'hon d'khol bet yisrael qodam avuhon di bishmayya, v’imru amen. Oseh Shalom.” ___

_May the prayers and supplications of all Israel be accepted by their Father who is in Heaven, and say amen. Oseh Shalom. ___

When we had finished whispering the _Kaddish, _I reread the last lines of Kristian’s letter. As I read, I realized that he was describing exactly the sentiments I have for him. Isn’t it strange how love can live deep inside a person’s heart for years, but never show itself until a certain moment?__

I folded Kristian’s letter up so that it would fit in my coat pocket. Carefully, I added it to the collection. Then, filled with a greater sense of love than I had been before, I put an arm around Rivka. Tomorrow I shall send a reply to Kristian through Helena once again, but for now I simply wish to reflect.

Auschwitz causes all of us pain beyond imagining. And yet, I still feel some pity for our captors: people like Frau Ryne, Frau Schneider and the other _Kapos, _the_ Sonderkommando_ and even the Nazi guards. Why shouldn’t I pity people like them? After all, they must be in pain too, to be able to inflict such horrors on others.

I will continue to record my experiences for as long as I am a prisoner, so that future generations can learn from my time in camp. Even if I am to die here, I will not allow my death to be a triumph for the Nazis. No: some portion of me will survive to bear witness to the atrocities committed here. A portion of Ashira Leidermann shall live on to describe the small things that keep humanity, hope and love alive in Auschwitz.

I have learned that the portion of me that will survive, my writing, can be as effective of a weapon as a gun. Words are and always will be my resistance, my vengeance and my hope.  
Ashira (93624)


	12. Epilogue

Ashira Leidermann was gassed two days after her last journal entry. She died to save Helena, who had been selected because she had contracted typhus from working in the hospital. Ashira, however, told Helena that Helena’s role and presence in Auschwitz were far more important than hers. She then forced Helena to swap coats and hand over her eye patch, and she gave her life for her friend the next morning. Her last words were, “Give my journal, letters and cross to Kristian, if he makes it. If not, you or Rivka can have them.”

When Auschwitz was liberated in January 1945, Helena Lübke and Rivka Leidermann were two of six thousand inmates who greeted the Soviet army. The young women had cared for each other until liberation: Rivka kept Helena hidden while she recuperated from the typhus, and she also organized another eye patch for her. Helena, in turn, saw Rivka through a nervous breakdown and suicidal impulses immediately after Ashira’s death. Upon liberation, Helena took all of Ashira’s writings and the silver cross back to Berlin with her. Using the journal entries and letters for names, she searched for any survivors that Ashira knew in Auschwitz.

Besides Rivka, only one of Ashira’s loved ones had come out of Auschwitz alive: Kristian Sternberg. He and his father had been taken on a death march into Germany. Dr. Sternberg died on the way, but Kristian lived and returned to Berlin several months after the war ended. When Helena discovered Kristian’s address, she put the Auschwitz journal, paper scraps, letters and cross into a shoebox and gave them to him. She explained how and why Ashira had died, telling him, “Her last wish was that you have these things.”

Kristian then went on to hunt down the journal that was stolen before the journey in the boxcars. His research came to naught until the SS officer who had taken it tracked him down. Ashira’s humor, compassion, and capacity for love and forgiveness had so moved the man that he saw the error of his ways. He deserted the SS and fled to Switzerland, taking Ashira’s journal with him. After the war ended, he moved back to Berlin and discovered that Rivka and Kristian were alive. The former SS officer gave the journal to Kristian, expressing regret that Ashira had died in Auschwitz and that he had helped bring about her fate. Kristian added the pre-Auschwitz journal to the camp materials in the box, which he kept as a memorial to the young woman he had loved, and he wore the silver cross for the remainder of his life. Ashira’s dream of the Nazis “opening their minds to love” had, in a way, come true.

Kristian and Rivka returned to Minsk in early 1946, looking for other survivors. Esther Kraler and her siblings, Sarah and Benyamin, had made it through the war in the forest, though their parents had both died in combat. The siblings were living in a deserted home in the city when Rivka and Kristian found them. Together, the Kralers, Rivka and Kristian set out in search of the other children. Miraculously, Avrom, Yisrael, Tzipporah and Jessika Kraler had all survived, protected by various non-Jewish families in the Minsk area. The Kraler siblings, save for Jessika, all returned to living together, with Esther as head of the household, in 1947. Four-year-old Jessika was allowed to stay with her adopted parents, Richard and Danka Weiss, and the two families remained in close contact. The Kralers, out of gratitude for the dangers run, also kept in touch with the families who had protected Yisrael, Avrom, and Tzipporah.

While Kristian and Rivka reunited the Kralers, Helena turned her research to the fate of her twin brother, Otto Lübke. She discovered that Otto, or 00557, had also survived Auschwitz. He, too, had lost an eye to Dr. Mengele’s color-changing experiment. After seven years of separation, they were reunited in 1948.

The Lübke twins, the Kralers, the Weiss family, Rivka and Kristian immigrated to America in early 1950. All of them except Rivka, who moved to Detroit to pursue a career in the auto business, took up residence near New York City. Kristian married Helena in 1954 and they had one son a year later, who they named Aaron after the Jewish boy who had helped Kristian in Auschwitz. Otto and Esther married in 1957, and they had two daughters, Lisbeth for Otto's mother, Ahuva for Esther's.

Rivka met a young Sicilian immigrant named Giovanni DiPaolo in Detroit, and they were married in 1955. They had two sons, David and Shmuel. They also had one daughter between the two boys. When Aaron Sternberg became old enough, he chose Rivka and Giovanni’s daughter for his wife. They had named her after Rivka’s sister, the brave young writer whose words had survived the Holocaust: Ashira Leidermann DiPaolo.


End file.
